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“GOD SAVE YER HOLINESS.” Frontispiece. 



IRISH WONDERS 


THE GHOSTS, GIANTS, POOKAS, DEMONS, LEPRE 
CHAWNS, BANSHEES, FAIRIES, WITCHES, WID- 
OWS, OLD MAIDS, AND OTHER MARVELS 
OF THE EMERALD ISLE 


Popular 2Dale$ ao tolD bp tl je people 


D. R. McANALLY, Jr. 


ILLUSTRATED BY H R. HEATON 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
(ttfce Utoer?'iDe $res& Cambri&oe 

1888 


4-GK 

I £>£ 


Copyright, 1888, 

By D. It. Me AN ALLY, Jr. 

All rights reserved. 




The Riverside Press, Cambridge : 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Co. 


IN MEMORY OF YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP, 

tarfjte Folium 

IS INSCRIBED TO 

Mr. JOSEPH B. McCULLAGH, 

AS A MODEST TRIBUTE OF 


PERSONAL RESPECT. 

























. 















. » 















































/ 








PREFACE. 


The wonderful imaginative power of the Celtic mind is 
never more strikingly displayed than in the legends and fan- 
ciful tales which people of the humbler walks of life seldom 
tire of telling. Go where you will in Ireland, the story-teller 
is there, and on slight provocation will repeat his narrative ; 
amplifying, explaining, embellishing, till from a single fact 
a connected -history is evolved, giving motives, particulars, 
action, and result, the whole surrounded by a rosy wealth 
of rustic imagery and told with dramatic force an actor 
might envy. The following chapters comprise an effort to 
present this phase of unwritten Celtic literature, the mate- 
rial having been collected during a recent lengthy visit, in 
the course of which every county in the island was traversed 
from end to end, and constant association had with the peas- 
ant tenantry. As, however, in perusing a drama each reader 
for himself supplies stage-action, so, in the following pages, 
he is requested to imagine the charms of gesticulation and 
intonation, for no pen can do justice to a story told by Irish 
lips amid Irish surroundings. 





1 

17 

36 

51 

67 

77 

92 

109 

119 

129 

139 

151 

170 

189 


The Seven Kings of Athenry 

Taming the Pooka 

Thf, Sexton of Cashel 

Satan’s Cloven Hoof 

The Enchanted Island 

How the Lakes were made ...... 

About the Fairies (with Music : “ Fairy Dance ”) 

The Banshee (with Music : “ Song of the Banshee ”) . 

The Round Towers 

The Police 

The Leprechawn 

The Henpecked Giant (with music “ When I was Single ”) 

Satan as a Sculptor 

The Defeat of the Widows 




PAGE 

“ God save yer Holiness ” Frontispiece 

Vignette Title 

Head- piece : “ She ’ll get all me Turf ” . . . . . vii 

Tail-piece : “ Divil roast ye wid it ” . . . . . . vii 

Head-piece : “ Is it spilin’ me wall he is ?” . . . . . ix 


Tail-piece : “ Howld on, we ’ll argy the matther ” . xi 

Initial : “ The Seven Kings of Athenry ” 1 

A Modern Irish Village ........ 3 

“All a-makin’ love to the Young Princess ”..... 7 

“ Divil a wan o’ me knows,” says he . . . . . 11 

u The Princess had disayved tliim all complately ” . . . .15 

“ All disconsarted entirely 16 

Initial : “ Taming the Pooka ” . . . . . . . .17 

Dennis and the Pooka ......... 19 

“ He ’d a sight of lamin’, had the King ” 25 

“ The Quane a-gostherin’ 29 

“ If it ’s aggrayble to ye, I ’ll look in yer mouth ” .... 31 

The Pooka Spirits 34 

Initial : “ The Sexton of Cashel ” 36 

The Rock of Cashel ......... 37 

“ Be aff wid yer nonsinse ” ...... . . 43 

“ Where is me dawther ? ” . . . . . . 47 



X 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ The Owld Man walkin’ in Cormac’s Chapel ” . . . . .50 

Initial : “ Satan’s Cloven Hoof ” . . . . . . 51 

Glendalough ........... 53 

Saint Kevin and the Devil ........ 60 

“ An’ so he ’s lame, an’ must show his cloven fut ” . . . 66 

Initial ; “ The Enchanted Island ” . 67 

“ Iiowld yer pace, ye palaverin’ shtrap ” . . . . .74 

“Howlin’ wid rage ” ......... 76 

Initial : “ How the Lakes were made ”...... 77 

Lough Conn ........... 82 

The Church by the Bog . 91 

Initial : “ About the Fairies ” ....... 92 

“Owld Meg” 104 

Eva calling the Cattle . . . . . . . . . 107 

Initial : “ The Banshee ” 109 

The “ Hateful Banshee ” . 113 

The “ Friendly Banshee 115 

Initial : “ The Round Towers ” ....... 119 

“ Crackin’ their Haythen Shkulls ” 127 

Initial : “ The Police 129 

The Police and the Tenants ........ 132 

“ Thither goes the poor old woman every day ” .... 138 

Initial : “ The Leprechawn ”....... 139 

Returning the next morning with the spade ..... 146 

“ Playing his pranks ” ........ 150 

Initial : “ The Henpecked Giant 151 

“ An’ who are you, me Dear,” says Finn lookin’ up . . 159 

“ Finn gave in an’ wint to work wid a pick an’ sphade ”... 168 

Initial: “ Satan as a Sculptor ” . . . . . . .170 

A Barren Cliff 171 

The Devil’s Face 173 

“ Her masther stood be her side ” 180 

* 

“ So the three av thim mounted the wan horse ” . . . . . 182 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


XI 


“ ‘ Kape from me,’ says the divil ” 188 

Initial : “ The Defeat of the Widows 189 

“ An’ phat does thim letters shpell ? ” . . . . . 193 

The Widdy Mulligan . 197 

The Widdy O’Donnell . 198 

Missis McMurthry . . . . . . . . . .199 

“ Owld Rooney an’ Paddy blaggardin’ the Consthable ivery fut o’ the 

way” 213 

“ A good bargain they made av it ” . . . . . . . . 218 




IRISH WONDERS. 


THE SEVEN KINGS OF ATHENRY. 



was a characteristic Irish ruin. 
Standing on a slight elevation, 
in the midst of a flat country, 
the castle lifted its turreted 
walls as proudly as when its 
ramparts were fringed with 
banners and glittered with hel- 
mets and shields. In olden 
times it was the citadel of the 
town, and although Athenry was fortified by 
a strong wall, protecting it alike from predatory as- 
sault and organized attack, the citadel, occupying the highest 
ground within the city, was itself surrounded by stronger 
walls, a fort within a fort, making assurance of security 
doubly sure. Only by treachery, surprise, or regular and 
long-continued siege could the castle have been taken. 

The central portion was a large, square structure ; except 
in size, not differing greatly from the isolated castles found in 
all parts of Ireland, and always in pairs, as if, when one Irish 
chieftain built a castle, his rival at once erected another a mile 
or so away, for the purpose of holding him in check. This 
central fort was connected by double walls, the remains of 


2 


IRISH WONDERS. 


covered passages, with smaller fortresses, little castles built 
into the wall surrounding the citadel ; and over these connect- 
ing walls, over the little castles, and over the piles of loose 
stones where once the strong outer walls had stood, the ivy 
grew in luxuriant profusion, throwing its dark green curtain 
on the unsightly masses, rounding the sharp edge of the ma- 
sonry, hiding the rough corners as though ashamed of their 
roughness, and climbing the battlements of the central castle 
to spread nature’s mantle of charity over the remains of a 
barbarous age, and forever conceal from human view the 
stony reminders of battle and blood. 

The success of the ivy was not complete. Here and there 
the corner of a battlement stood out in sharp relief, as though 
it had pushed back the struggling plant, and, by main force, 
had risen above the leaves, while on one side a round tower 
lifted itself as if to show that a stone tower could stand for 
six hundred years without permitting itself to become ivy- 
grown ; that there could be individuality in towers as among 
men. The great arched gateway too was not entirely subju- 
gated, though the climbing tendrils and velvety leaves dressed 
the pillars and encroached on the arch. The keystone bore 
a rudely carved, crowned head, and ivy vines, coming up un- 
derneath the arch, to take the old king by surprise, climbed 
the bearded chin, crossed the lips, and were playing before the 
nose as if to give it a sportive tweak, while the stern brow 
frowned in anger at the plant’s presumption. 

But only a few surly crags of the citadel refused to go 
gracefully into the retirement furnished by the ivy, and the 
loving plant softened every outline, filled up every crevice, 
bridged the gaps in the walls, toned down the rudeness of 
projecting stones, and did everything that an ivy-plant could 
do to make the rugged old castle as presentable as were the 


THE SEVEN KINGS OF ATHENRY. 


3 


high rounded mounds without the city, cast up by the besiegers 
when the enemy last encamped against it. 

The old castle had fallen on evil days, for around the walls 
of the citadel clustered the miserable huts of the modern Irish 
village. The imposing castle gate faced a lane, muddy and 
foul with the refuse thrown from the houses. The ivy-man- 



tled towers looked down upon earth and stone huts, with 
thatched roofs, low chimneys, and doors seeming as if the 
builder designed them for windows and changed his mind 
without altering their size, but simply continued them to the 
ground and made them answer the purpose. A population, 
notable chiefly for its numerousness and lack of cleanliness, 


4 


IRISH WONDERS. 


presented itself at every door, but little merriment was heard 
in the alleys of Athenry. 

“ Sure it ’s mighty little they have to laugh at,” said the 
car-man. “ Indade, the times has changed fur the counthry, 
Sorr. Wanst Ireland was as full o’ payple as a Dublin 
sthrate, an’ they was all as happy as a grazin’ colt, an’ as 
paceful as a basket av puppies, barrin’ a bit o’ fun at a mar- 
ryin’ or a wake, but thim times is all gone. Wid the land- 
lords, an’ the guver’mint, an’ the sojers, an’ the polis, letfcin’ 
in the rich an’ turnin’ out the poor, Irishmin is shtarvin’ to 
death. Se$ that bit av a cabin there, Sorr ? Sure there ’s 
foorteen o’ thim in it, an’ two pigs, an’ tin fowls ; they all 
shlape togather on a pile av wet shtraw in the corner, an’ 
sorra a wan o’ thim knows where the bit in the mornin’ is to 
come from. Phat do they ate ? They ’re not in the laste pur- 
tickler. Spakin’ ginerally, whatever they can get. They ’ve 
pitaties an’ milk, an’ sometimes pitaties an’ no milk, an’ av a 
Sunday a bit o’ mate that ’s a herrin’, an’ not a boot to the 
fut o’ thim, an’ they paddlin’ in the wather on the flure. Sure 
the town ’s full o’ thim an’ the likes av thim. Begorra, the 
times has changed since the siven Kings held coort in the cas- 
tle bey ant yon. 

“ Niver heard o’ the Siven Kings av Athenroy ? Why ivery 
babby knows the whole shtory be heart, an’ all about thim. 
Faith I ’ll tell it, fur it ’s not desayvin’ ye I am, fur the ould 
castle was wan o’ the greatest places in the counthry. 

“ W anst upon a time, there was an ould King in Athenroy, 
that, be all accounts, was the besht ould King that iver set 
fut upon a throne. He was a tall ould King, an’ the hairs av 
him an’ the beard av him was as white as a shnow-flake, an’ he 
had a long, grane dressin’ gown, wid shamrocks av goold all 
over it, an’ a goold crown as high as a gintleman’s hat, wid a 


THE SEVEN KINGS OF ATHENRY. 


5 


dimuncl as big as yer fisht on the front av it, an’ silver shlippers 
on the feet av him. An’ he had grane carpets on the groun’ 
in the hall o’ the ould castle, an’ begob, they do say that 
everything about the coort was goold, but av that I ’m not 
rightly sartain, barrin’ the pipe. That was av goold, bekase 
there ’s a picture av him hangiiT in Michael Flaherty’s shebeen, 
an’ the pipe is just the look av goold an’ so it must have been. 

“ An’ he was the besht King in Ireland, an’ sorra a beggar 
’ud come an the dure, but the King ’ud come out in his 
gown an’ shlippers an’ ax him how he come to be poor, an’ 
sind him ’round to the kitchen to be warrumed wid a dhrop 
av whishkey an’ fed wid all the cold pitaties that was in the 
panthry. All the people riz up whin he was a-walkin’ down 
the shtrate wid a big goold-top shtick in his hand, an’ the 
crown a-shinin’ on his head, an’ they said, ‘ God save yer Ho- 
liness,’ an’ he said, ‘ God save ye kindly,’ mighty perlite, be- 
kase he was a dacent mannered ould King, an’ ’ud shpake to 
a poor divil that had n’t a coat on his back as quick as to wan 
av his ginerals wid a goold watch an’ a shiny hat. An’ whin 
he wint into a shop, sure they niver axed him to show the 
color av his money at all, but the man ’ud say, ‘ God save ye ! 
Sure ye can pay whin ye plaze, an’ I ’ll sind it be the postman 
whin he goes by.’ An’ the ould King ’ud say, ‘ Oh, I wont 
throuble ye. Bedad, I ’ll carry it,’ an’ aff the blessed ould 
King ’ud go, wid his bundles undher his arm, an’ the crown 
on his head, as happy as a widdy wid a new husband. 

“ An’ there was six other ould Kings, that was frinds to 
him, an’ they was all as like him as six paze. Foor times a 
year they ’d all come to Athenroy fur a bit av a shpree like, 
bekase the King av Athenroy was the ouldest av thim, an’ they 
thought the worruld an’ all av him. Faix, it was mighty 
improvin’ to see thim all a-goin’ to chapel in the mornin’, 


6 


IRISH WONDERS. 


an’ singin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ playin’ whisht in the avenin’. 
Sure thim was the blessed days fur the counthry. 

“ W ell me dear, in coorse av time, the six ould Kings all 
died, God rest their sowls, but as aitch wan had a son to come 
afther him, the differ was mighty shmall, for the young Kings 
was dacent shpoken lads an’ kept on cornin’ to Athenroy just 
like the ould Kings. 

“ Oh, bedad, I forgot to tell yez that the ould King had a 
dawther, that was the light av his eyes. She w r as as tall as 
a sargent an’ as shtrate as a gun, an’ her eyes was as blue as 
the shky an’ shone like the shtars. An’ her hairs was t’reads 
av goold, an’ she was the beautifulest woman iver seen in 
Athenroy. An’ shmall love there was for her, fur she was as 
cowld as a wet Christmas. She did n’t shpake often, bekase 
she was n’t wan o’ thim that ’ud deefen a smith, but whin she 
did, the tongue that was in the head av her was like a sting- 
nettle, an’ ’ud lash around like a throut on land. An’ ivery 
woman in the shtrate watched her like kites whin she set fut 
out o’ the dure, bekase she dressed as fine as a fiddle, wid a 
grane silk gown, an’ a blue bonnet wid yellow ribbins, an’ a 
shtring av goold baids the size av plums ’round her neck. 

“ Musha, thin, it ’s a quare thing entirely, that min like wan 
woman betther than another. Begob, it ’s my belafe, savin’ 
yer prisence, that there ’s not the differ av a cowld pitaty 
bechune thim all whin it ’s a queshtion av marryin’ wan o’ 
thim, an’ if the whole worruld knewn that same, its few 
hurted heads there ’d be along o’ the wimmin. Well, it was 
the divil’s own job, axin’ yer pardon, but ivery wan o’ thim 
young Kings tuk into his head to fall in love wid the Princess 
Bridget, fur that was her name, an’ a good name it is ; an’ 
wan afther another, they ’d shlip in whin they ’d be passin’, 
to pay their respicts. Whin wan o’ thim found out that 


THE SEVEN KINGS OF ATHENRY. 


7 


another wan was cornin’, he ’d come the aftener himself to 
make up fur it, an’ afther a while, they all found out aitch 
other, an’ thin, begob all o’ thim come to be beforehand wid 
the rest, an’ from foor times in the year, it was foor times in 



the week that the gang o’ them ’ud be settin’ in the kitchen 
till the cock ’ud crow, all a-makin’ love to the young Princess. 

“ An’ a fine sight it was to see thim, bekase they was all 
shtrivin’ to do somethin’ for her. Whin she paled the pita- 
ties fur the ould King’s brekquest, sure wan o thim ud be 
givin’ her the pitaties, another wan ’ud catch the palin an 
the rest lookin’ on wid the invy shinin out o their faces. 


8 


IRISH WONDERS. 


Whin she dropped the thimble, you ’d think the last wan ’ud 
jump out av his shkin to get it, an’ whin she wint to milk 
the cow, wan ’ud carry the pail, another wan ’ud fetch the 
shtool, an 5 two ’ud feed the cow, an’ two other wans ’ud hold 
the calf, an’ aitch wan ’ud bless God whin she gev him the 
laste shmile, bekase she was so cowld, d’ ye mind, that divil a 
wan o’ thim all cud say that he ’d get her at all. 

u So at firsht, ould King Dennis, that bein’ his name, was 
mighty plazed to see the young chaps all afther his dawther, 
an’ whin he knewn they was in the kitchen, he ’d shmoke his 
pipe an’ have his sup be himself in the other room so as to 
lave thim ; an’ whin he saw thim hangin’ over the wall o’ the 
garden beyant, or peepin’ through the hedge, he ’d let on not 
to parsave thim ; an’ whin they folly’ d the Princess to church, 
he was as proud as a paycock to see thim settin’ behind her 
wid their crowns in a row undher the sate. But whin they kept 
an a-comin’ ivery night in the week an’ drinkin’ his whishkey 
an’ shmokin’ his besht terbakky, — more-betoken, whin they 
begun’ to be oncivil to aitch other, says he to himself, says 
he, ‘ Bedad,’ says he, ‘ there ’ll be throuble if it kapes on thish- 
a-way. Sure I ’ll shpake to the gurrul.’ 

“ So he called to the Princess, ‘ Biddy,’ says he. 

“ ( What, Father ? ’ says she. 

“ c Come here to me,’ says he. 

“ ‘ Sure how can I ? I ’m busy,’ says she. 

“ ‘ Phat ’s that you ’re at ? ’ says he. 

“ ‘ I ’m afther shwapin’ the kitchen,’ says she. 

“ ‘ Lave aff,’ says he. ‘ Come to me at wanst,’ says he. 

“ The ould King was very starn, bekase he knewn it was 
only an axcuse she was afther makin,’ an’ she was lookin’ that 
he ’d be sayin’ somethin’ about the young Kings an’ was 
afther dodgin’ as long as she cud. So whin he shpoke so 


THE SEVEN KINGS OF ATHENRY. 


9 


crass, she riz up aff the sate, for it was a fib she was tellin , , 
an’ she did n’t shwape the kitchen at all, an’ that was done 
be wan av the maids, an’ gev a sigh, an’ wint in the ould 
King’s room. 

“ An’ there was the ould King on his throne, his crown 
on his head, shmokin’ his goolden dhudeen wid a glass o’ 
grog at his side, as detarmined as he cud be. 6 1 ’m wantin’ 
to know,’ says he, ‘ phat you ’re aftlier goin’ to do,’ says he, 
‘ in regards av the young Kings,’ says he. 

66 c Phat ’s that you ’re sayin’, Father ? ’ says she, mighty 
shly, as lettin’ on not to see phat he was drivin’ at. The ould 
King repated his statemint. 

“ ‘ Troth, then, I dunno, Father,’ says she. 

“ ‘ Do you mane to marry thim, at all, at all ? ’ says he. 
ut Not all o’ thim,’ says she, shmilin’. 

“ 6 Well, which wan o’ thim? ’ says he. 

“ ‘ How can I tell ? ’ says she. 
u 6 Has any o’ thim axed ye ? ’ says he. 

“ c Has n’t they all ? ’ says she. 

" 6 An’ which wan do ye love besht ? ’ says he. 

“ ‘ Sure how do I know ? ’ says she, an’ sorra a word more 
cud he get from her be all the queshtions he cud ax. 

66 But he tuk a dale av bother an’ thin gev it up an’ says to 
her, 6 Go an’ get the supper,’ says he, ( come in the throne- 
room afther brekquest wid yer mind made.’ But he was 
afeard she ’d give him throuble fur it was the cool face she 
had, an’ afther she was gone he set his crown over wan ear 
an’ scrotched his head like a tinant on quarther day widout 
a pinny in his pocket 3 bekase he knewn that whoever the 
gurrul tuk, the other five Kings cud make throuble. 

u So the next mornin’, the Princess towld him phat she ’d 
do, an’ whin the Kings come that night, he walks into the 


10 


IRISH WONDERS. 


kitchen where they were shmokin’, an’ makin’ a low bow, he 
says, ‘ God save ye/ an’ they all riz an’ says, ‘ God save yer 
Holiness.’ So he says, ‘ Bridget, go to bed immejitly, I ’ll 
shpake to the jintlemin.’ An’ she wint away, lettin’ an to 
shmile an’ con sale her face, ’t was the divil av a sharp gurrul 
she was, an’ the ould King set on the table an’ towld thim 
phat she ’d do. He towld thim they must play fair, an’ they 
said they would, an’ thin he towld thim the Princess wanted 
to see which was the besht man, so they must have shports 
in her prisence, an’ the next day afther the shports they ’d 
find out who she was goin’ to marry. So they all aggrade, 
an’ wint home at wanst to get ready fur the shports. 

“ Faith, it ’ud ’uv done the sowl av ye good the next day 
to see the whole av Ireland at the shports whin the contist 
bechune the Kings kem. 

“ ’T was held in the field beyant, an’ they made a ring an’ 
the six young Kings run races an’ rassled an’ played all the 
axcitin’ games that was iver knewn, aitch wid wan eye on the 
shports an’ the other on the Princess, that was shinilin’ an 
thim all an’ lookin’ as plazed as a new Mimber o’ Parlaymint, 
an’ so did they all, bekase, d’ ye see, before the shports begun, 
they was brought, wan at a time, in the coort, an’ the Prin- 
cess talked wid aitch be himself, was n’t it the shly purtinder 
that she was, fur whin they kem out, every wan was shmilin’ 
to himself, as fur to say he had a very agrayble saycret. 

“ So the shports was ended an’ everybody wint home, 
barrin’ thim as shtopped at the shebeens. But sorra a wink 
o’ shlape crassed the eyes av wan o’ the young Kings, fur 
the joy that was in the heart o’ thim, bekase aitch knewn 
he ’d get the Princess. 

“ Whin the mornin’ come, the like o’ the flusthration that 
was in Athenroy was niver seen afore, nor sense aither, fur 









“ DIYIL A WAN O’ ME KNOWS,” SAYS HE. Page 13. 



THE SEVEN KINGS OF ATHENRY. 


13 


whin the maid wint to call the Princess, sure she was n’t there. 
So they sarched the coort from the garret to the cellar an’ 
peeped in the well an’ found she was nowhere entirely. 

“ So they towld the ould King, an’ says he, ‘ Baithershin, 
where is she at all/ says he, ‘ an’ phat ’ull I be sayin’ to the 
young Kings whin they come.’ An’ there he was, a-tarin’ 
the long white hair av him, whin the young Kings all come. 

u ( God save yer Holiness/ says they to him. 

“ ‘ God save ye kindly/ says he, fur wid all the sorra that 
was in him, sure he did n’t forgit to be perlite, bekase he was 
as cunnin’ as a fox, an’ knewn he ’d nade all his good man- 
ners to make aminds fur his dawther’s absince. So, says he, 
‘ God save ye kindly/ says he, bowin’. 

“ 6 An’ where is the Princess ? ’ says they. 

u ‘ Divil a wan o’ me knows/ says he. 

“ ‘ Sure it ’s jokin’ wid us ye are/ says the Kings. 

“ ‘ Faix, I ’m not/ says the ould King. ‘ Bad cess to the 
thrace av her was seen sense she went to bed.’ 

“ 6 Sure she did n’t go to bed entirely/ says the maid, ‘ the 
bed was n’t touched, an’ her besht gown ’s gone.’ 

“ ‘ An’ where has she gone ? ’ says the Kings. 

“ c Tare an’ ’ounds/ says the ould King, ‘ am n’t I ignerant 
entirely ? Och, Biddy, Biddy, how cud ye sarve me so ? ’ 
a-wringing his hands wid the graif. 

“ W ell, at firsht the Kings looked at aitch other as if the 
eyes ’ud lave thim, bein’ all dazed like an’ sarcumvinted in- 
tirely. An’ thin they got their wits about thim, an’ begun to 
be angry. 

u c It ’s desayvin’ us ye are, ye outprobious ould villin/ says 
they to him. ‘ Musha, thin, bad cess to ye, bring out the 
Princess an’ let her make her chice bechune us, or it ’ll be 
the worse fur ye, ye palaverin’ ould daddy long-legs/ says 
they. 


14 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ 4 God bechune us an’ harm/ says the ould King, 4 sure 
d’ ye think it ’s makin’ fun av ye I am, an’ me spindin’ more 
than tin pounds yestherday fur whishkey an the shports? 
Faix, she ’s gone/ says he. 

44 4 Where to ? ’ says they. 

44 4 Divil a know I know/ says he, wid the face av him get- 
tin’ red, an’ wid that word they all wint away in a tarin’ rage 
wid him, fur they consaved, an’ shmall blame to thim, that he 
had her consaled in the coort an’ was shtrivin’ to chate thim. 

44 An’ they wint home an’ got their armies, an’ come back 
wid ’em that night, an’ while the ould King an’ his min were 
all ashlape they made these piles av airth to take the city 
whin the day ’ud break. 

44 Whin the ould King riz an’ tuk a walk an the roof wid 
his shlippers, sure phat ’ud he see but banners a-wavin’, 
soords a-flashin’, an’ the ears av him was deefened wid the 
thrumpets. 4 Bad scran to the idjits/ says he ; 4 phat ’s that 
they ’re afther ? ’ says he. 4 Is n’t there more nor wan 
woman in the worruld, that they ’re makin’ a bother afther 
Bridget ? ’ So wid that he ordhered his min to get ready wid 
their waypons, an’ before the battle ’ud begin, he wint out 
to thry an’ make a tliraty. 

44 While they were a-talkin’, up comes wan av the King’s 
tinants, wid a donkey an’ a load av sayweed fur the King’s 
garden, that he ’d been to Galway afther. 4 God save ye/ 
says he, a-touchin’ his cap ; 4 where is the six Kings ? ’ 

44 4 An’ phat d’ ye want, ye blaggard ? ’ says they, lookin’ 
lofty. 

44 4 1 ’ve a message fur yez/ says he, 4 from the young Prin- 
cess,’ an’ whin they heard him shpake, they all stopped to 
listen. 

44 4 She sent her respicts/ says he, 4 an’ bid me tell yez that 


THE SEVEN KINGS OF ATHENRY. 


15 


she was afther kapin’ her word an’ lettin’ yer Honors know 
who she was goin’ to marry. It ’s the King av Galway that ’s 
in it, if it ’s plazin’ to ye, an’ she says she ’ll sind yez a bit av 
the cake. I met her lasht night in the road ridin’ wid him 
on a car an’ had a bundle undlier her arrum. Divil a taste 
av a lie ’s in it entirely.’ 

“ Bad cess to the gurrul, it was thrue fur him, fur she had 
run away. But, my dear, it was as good as the theayter to 
see the six young Kings an’ the ould King, a-lookin’ at aitch 
other as stupid as a jackass, all as wan as the castle ’ad ’a’ 



fallen on thim. But they was sinsible young fellys, an’ seen 
the Princess had desaved thim all complately. 

“ ‘ Bad scran to the gurrul/ says they, ‘ an’ it ’s the blessed 
fools we was fur belavin’ her/ Thin they come to talk to 
aitch other, an’ wan says, ‘ Sure she thought most av me, fur 
she towld me she hoped I ’d bate yez,’ says he. ‘ Begob, she 
said to me that same,’ says the other wans, an’ they stud, 
scrotchin’ the heads av thim an’ disconsarted intirely. 

“ ‘ An’ phat ’s the good av fightin/ says the ould King, 
‘ bein’ as we ’re all in the thrap at wanst ? ’ 

u 6 Thrue fur ye/ says they. ‘ We ’ll dispinse widout her. 
We ’ll have it out wid the King o’ Galway/ says they. 


16 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ An’ they all wint into the coort an’ had the bit an’ sup, 
an’ made a thraty forninst the King av Galway. It was the 
great war that was in it, the Siven Kings wid the King av 
Galway, an’ bate him out o’ the counthry intirely. But it ’s 
my consate that they was all fools to be afther fightin’ con- 
sarnin’ wan woman whin the worruld is full o’ thim, an* any 
wan competint to give a man plenty to think av, bekase whin 
she gives her attinshun to it, any woman can be the divil com- 
plately.” 



r 



TAMING THE POOKA. 


[E west and northwest 
coast of Ireland shows 
many remarkable geolog- 
ical formations, but, ex- 
cepting the Giant’s Cause- 
way, no more striking 
spectacle is presented than 
that to the south of Gal- 
way Bay. From the sea, 
the mountains rise in ter- 
races like gigantic stairs, 
the layers of stone being 
apparently harder and denser on the upper surfaces than 
beneath, so the lower portion of each layer, disintegrating 
first, is washed away by the rains and a clearly defined step is 
formed. These terraces are generally about twenty feet high, 
and of a breadth, varying with the situation and exposure, of 
from ten to fifty feet. 

The highway from Ennis to Ballyvaughn, a fishing village 
opposite Galway, winds, by a circuitous course, through these 
freaks of nature, and, on the long descent from the high land 
to the sea level, passes the most conspicuous of the neighbor- 
ing mountains, the Corkscrew Hill. The general shape of the 
mountain is conical, the terraces composing it are of wonder- 
ful regularity from the base to the peak, and the strata being 



18 


IRISH WONDERS. 


sharply upturned from the horizontal, the impression given is 
that of a broad road carved out of the sides of the mountain 
and winding by an easy ascent to the summit. 

“ ’T is the Pooka’s Path they call it/’ said the car-man. 
“ Phat ’s the Pooka ? Well, that ’s not aisy to say. It ’s an 
avil sper’t that does be always in mischief, but sure it niver 
does sarious harrum axceptin’ to thim that desarves it, or thim 
that shpakes av it disrespictful. I never seen it, Glory be to 
God, but there ’s thim that has, and be the same token, they 
do say that it looks like the finest black horse that iver wore 
shoes. But it is n’t a horse at all at all, for no horse ’ud have 
eyes av fire, or be breathin’ flames av blue wid a shmell o’ 
sulfur, savin’ yer presince, or a shnort like thunder, and no 
mortial horse ’ud take the lapes it does, or go as fur widout 
gettin’ tired. Sure when it give Tim O’Bryan the ride it give 
him, it wint from Gort to Athlone wid wan jump, an’ the next 
it tuk he was in Mullingyar, and the next was in Dublin, and 
back agin be way av Kilkenny an’ Limerick, an’ niver turned 
a hair. How far is that ? Faith I dunno, but it ’s a power 
av distance, an’ clane acrost Ireland an’ back. He knew it 
was the Pooka bekase it shpake to him like a Christian mortial, 
only it is n’t agrayble in its language an’ ’ull niver give ye a 
dacint word afther ye ’re on its back, an’ sometimes not before 
aither. 

u Sure Dennis O’Rourke was afther cornin’ home wan night, 
it was only a boy I was, but I mind him tellin’ the shtory, an’ 
it was at a fair in Galway he ’d been. He ’d been havin’ a 
sup, some says more, but whin he come to the rath, and jist 
beyant where the fairies dance and ferninst the wall where the 
polisman was shot last winther, he fell in the ditch, quite spint 
and tired complately. It was n’t the length as much as the 
wideness av the road was in it, fur he was goin’ from wan side 


TAMING THE POOKA. 


19 


to the other an’ it was too much fur him entirely. So he laid 
shtill fur a bit and thin thried fur to get up, but his legs wor 
light and his head was heavy, an’ whin he attimpted to get his 
feet an the road ’t was his head that was an it, bekase his legs 
cud n’t balance it. W ell, he laid there and was bet entirely, 
an’ while he was studyin’ how he ’d raise, he heard the throt- 
tin’ av a horse on the road. ‘ ’T is meself ’ull get the lift 
now/ says he, and laid waitin’, and up comes the Pooka. Whin 



Dennis seen him, begob, he kivered his face wid his hands 
and turned on the breast av him, and roared wid fright like a 
bull. 

u c A rra h thin, ye snakin’ blaggard,’ says the Pooka, mighty 
short, * lave aff yer bawlin’ or I ’ll kick ye to the ind av next 
week,’ says he to him. 

u But Dennis was scairt, an’ bellered louder than afore, so 
the Pooka, wid his hoof, give him a crack on the back that 
knocked the wind out av him. 


20 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“‘Will ye lave aff/ says the Pooka, ‘or will I give ye 
another, ye roarin’ dough-face ? ’ 

“Dennis left aff blubberin’ so the Pooka got his timper 
back. 

“ ‘ Shtand up, ye guzzlin’ sarpint,’ says the Pooka, ‘ I ’ll 
give ye a ride.’ 

“ ‘ Plaze yer Honor,’ says Dennis, ‘ I can’t. Sure I ’ve not 
been afther drinkin’ at all, but shmokin’ too much an’ atin’, 
an’ it ’s sick I am, and not ontoxicated.’ 

“ ‘ Och, ye dhrunken buzzard,’ says the Pooka, ‘ Don’t offer 
fur to desave me,’ liftin’ up his hoof agin, an’ givin’ his tail a 
swash that sounded like the noise av a catheract, ‘ Did n’t I 
thrack ye for two miles be yer breath/ says he, ‘An’ you 
shmellin’ like a potheen fact’ry,’ says he, ‘ an’ the nose on 
yer face as red as a turkey-cock’s. Get up, or I ’ll lift ye,’ 
says he, jumpin’ up an’ cracking his hind fut like he was doin’ 

a ^ 

“ Dennis did his best, an’ the Pooka helped him wid a grip 
o’ the teeth on his collar. 

“ ‘ Pick up yer caubeen,’ says the Pooka, ‘ an’ climb up. 
I ’ll give ye such a ride as ye niver dhramed av.’ 

“ ‘ Ef it ’s plazin’ to yer Honor/ says Dennis, ‘ I ’d laver 
walk. Ridin’ makes me dizzy/ says he. 

“ ‘ ’T is not plazin’/ says the Pooka, ‘ will ye get up or will I 
kick the shtuffin’ out av yer cowardly carkidge/ says he, turn- 
in’ round an’ flourishin’ his heels in Dennis’ face. 

“ Poor Dennis thried, but he cud n’t, so the Pooka tuk him 
to the wall an’ give him a lift an it, an’ whin Dennis was 
mounted, an’ had a tight howld on the mane, the first lep he 
give was down the rock there, a thousand feet into the field 
ye see, thin up agin, an’ over the mountain, an’ into the say, 
an’ out agin, from the top av the waves to the top av the 


TAMING THE POOKA. 


21 


mountain, an’ afther the poor soggarth av a ditcher was nigh 
onto dead, the Pooka come back here wid him an’ dhropped 
him in the ditch where he found him, an’ blowed in his face 
to put him to slape, so lavin’ him. An’ they found Dennis 
in the mornin’ an’ carried him home, no more cud he walk for 
a fortnight be razon av the wakeness av his bones fur the ride 
he ’d had. 

“ But sure, the Pooka ’s a different baste entirely to phat he 
was afore King Bryan-Boru tamed him. Niver heard av 
him? Well, he was the king av Munster an’ all Ireland an’ 
tamed the Pooka wanst fur all on the Corkschrew Hill fer- 
ninst ye. 

“ Ye see, in the owld days, the counthry was full av avil 
sper’ts, an’ fairies an’ witches, an’ divils entirely, and the 
harrum they done was onsaycin’, for they wor always cornin’ 
an’ goin’, like Mulligan’s blanket, an’ widout so much as sayin’, 
by yer lave. The fairies ’ud be dancin’ on the grass every 
night be the light av the moon, an’ stalin’ away the childhre, 
an’ many ’s the wan they tuk that niver come back. The owld 
rath on the hill beyant was full av the dead, an’ afther night- 
fall they ’d come from their graves an’ walk in a long line wan 
afther another to the owld church in the valley where they ’d 
go in an’ stay till cock-crow, thin they ’d come out agin an’ 
back to the rath. Sorra a parish widout a witch, an’ some 
nights they ’d have a great enthertainmint on the Corkschrew 
Hill, an’ you ’d see thim, wid shnakes on their arrums an’ 
necks an’ ears, be way av jewels, an’ the eyes av dead men in 
their hair, cornin’ for miles an’ miles, some ridin’ through the 
air on shticks an’ bats an’ owls, an’ some walkin’, an’ more on 
Pookas an’ horses wid wings that ’ud come up in line to the 
top av the hill, like the cabs at the dure o’ the theayter, an’ 
lave thim there an’ hurry aff to bring more. 


22 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ Sometimes the Owld Inimy, Satan himself, ’ud be there at 
the enthertainmint, cornin’ an a monsthrous draggin, wid grane 
shcales an’ eyes like the lightnin’ in the heavens, an’ a roarin’ 
fiery mouth like a lime-kiln. It was the great day thin, for 
they do say all the witches brought their rayports at thim say- 
sons fur to show him phat they done. 

“ Some ’ud tell how they shtopped the wather in a spring, 
an’ inconvanienced the nabers, more ’ud show how they 
dhried the cow’s milk, an’ made her kick the pail, an’ they ’d 
all laugh like to shplit. Some had blighted the corn, more 
had brought the rains on the harvest. Some towld how their 
enchantmints made the childhre fall ill, some said how they 
set the thatch on fire, more towld how they shtole the eggs, 
or spiled the crame in the churn, or bewitched the butther 
so it ’ud n’t come, or led the shape into the bog. But that 
was n’t all. 

“ W an ’ud have the head av a man murthered be her manes, 
an’ wid it the hand av him hung fur the murther ; wan ’ud 
bring the knife she ’d scuttled a boat wid an’ pint in the say 
to where the corpses laid av the fishermen she ’d dhrownded ; 
wan ’ud carry on her breast the child she ’d shtolen an’ meant 
to bring up in avil, an’ another wan ’ud show the little white 
body av a babby she ’d smothered in its slape. And the 
corpse-candles ’ud tell how they desaved the thraveller, bringin’ 
him to the river, an’ the avil sper’ts ’ud say how they dhrew 
him in an’ down to the bottom in his sins an’ thin to the pit 
wid him. An’ owld Belzebub ’ud listen to all av thim, wid a 
rayporther, like thim that ’s afther takin’ down the spaches 
at a Lague meetin’, be his side, a-writing phat they said, so as 
whin they come to be paid, it ’ud n’t be forgotten. 

“ Thim wor the times fur the Pookas too, fur they had 
power over thim that wint forth afther night, axceptin’ it was 


TAMING THE POOKA. 


23 


on an arriant av marcy they were. But sorra a sinner that 
had n’t been to his juty reglar ’ud iver see the light av day 
agin afther meetin’ a Pooka thin, for the baste ’ud aither kick 
him to shmithereens where he stud, or lift him on his back 
wid his teeth an’ jump into the say wid him, thin dive, lavin’ 
him to dhrownd, or shpring over a clift wid him an’ tumble 
him to the bottom a bleedin’ corpse. But was n’t there the 
howls av joy whin a Pooka ’ud catch a sinner unbeknownst, 
an’ fetch him on the Corkschrew wan o’ the nights Satan was 
there. Och, God defind us, phat a sight it was. They made 
a ring wid the corpse-candles, while the witches tore him limb 
from limb, an’ the fiends drunk his blood in red-hot iron nog- 
gins wid shrieks o’ laughter to smother his schreams, an’ the 
Pookas jumped on his body an’ thrampled it into the ground, 
an’ the timpest ’ud whishle a chune, an’ the mountains about 
’ud kape time, an’ the Pookas, an’ witches, an’ sper’ts av avil, 
an’ corpse-candles, an’ bodies o’ the dead, an’ divils, ’ud all jig 
together round the rock where owld Belzebub ’ud set shmilin’, 
as fur to say he ’d ax no betther divarshun. God’s presince 
be wid us, it makes me crape to think av it. 

“ Well, as I was afther sayin’, in the time av King Bryan, 
the Pookas done a dale o’ harrum, but as thim that they mur- 
thered wor dhrunken bastes that wor in the shebeens in the 
day an’ in the ditch be night, an’ was n’t missed whin the 
Pookas tuk them, the King paid no attintion, an’ small blame 
to him that ’s. 

u But wan night, the queen’s babby fell ill, an’ the king 
says to his man, says he, 6 Here, Riley, get you up an’ on the 
white mare an’ go fur the docther.’ 

“ ‘ Musha thin,’ says Riley, an’ the king’s counthry house 
was in the break o’ the hills, so Riley ’ud pass the rath an’ the 
Corkschrew on the way afther the docther; ‘ Musha thin,’ 


24 


IRISH WONDERS. 


says he, aisey and on the quiet, c it ’s mesilf that does n’t want 
that same job.’ 

u So he says to the king, ‘ W on’t it do in the mornin’ ? 9 

“ 6 It will not,’ says the king to him. - ‘ Up, ye lazy beggar, 
atin’ me bread, an’ the life lavin’ me child.’ 

“ So he wint, wid great shlowness, tuk the white mare, an’ 
aff, an’ that was the last seen o’ him or the mare aither, fur 
the Pooka tuk ’em. Sorra a taste av a lie ’s in it, for thim 
that said they seen him in Cork two days afther, thrading aff 
the white mare, was desaved be the sper’ts, that made it seem 
to be him whin it was n’t that they ’ve a thrick o’ doin’. 

“ W ell, the babby got well agin, bekase the docther did n’t 
get there, so the king left botherin’ afther it and begun to 
wondher about Riley an’ the white mare, and sarched fur thim 
but did n’t find thim. An’ thin he knewn that they was gone 
entirely, bekase, ye see, the Pooka did n’t lave as much as a 
hair o’ the mare’s tail. 

“ ‘ Wurra thin,’ says he, ‘ is it horses that the Pooka ’ull be 
stalin’ ? Bad cess to its impidince ! This ’ull niver do. Sure 
we ’ll be ruinated entirely,’ says he. 

“ Mind ye now, it ’s my consate from phat he said, that the 
king was n’t consarned much about Riley, fur he knewn that 
he cud get more Irishmen whin he wanted thim, but phat he 
meant to say was that if the Pooka tuk to horse-stalin’, he ’d 
be ruinated entirely, so he would, for where ’ud he get another 
white mare ? So it was a mighty sarious question an’ he re- 
tired widin himself in the coort wid a big book that he had 
that towld saycrets. He ’d a sight av lamin’, had the king, 
aquel to a school-masther, an’ a head that ’ud sarcumvint a 
fox. 

“ So he read an’ read as fast as he cud, an’ afther readin’ 
widout shtoppin’, barrin’ fur the bit an’ sup, fur siven days 


TAMING THE POOKA. 


25 


an’ nights, he come out, an’ whin they axed him cud he bate 
the Pooka now, he said niver a word, axceptin’ a wink wid his 
eye, as fur to say he had him. 



“ So that day he was in the fields an’ along be the hedges 
an’ ditches from sunrise to sunset, collectin’ the matarials av a 
dose fur the Pooka, but phat he got, faith, I dunno, no more 
does any wan, fur he never said, but kep the saycret to himself 
an’ did n’t say it aven to the quane, fur he knewn that saycrets 
run through a woman like wather in a ditch. But there was 
wan thing about it that he cud n’t help tellin’, fur he wanted 


26 


IRISH WONDERS. 


it but cud n’t get it widout help, an’ that was three hairs from 
the Pooka’s tail, axceptin’ which the charm ’ud n’t work. So 
he towld a man he had, he ’d give him no end av goold if he ’d 
get thim fur him, but the felly pulled aff his caubeen an’ 
scrotched his head an’ says, ‘ Faix, yer Honor, I dunno phat ’ll 
be the good to me av the goold if the Pooka gets a crack at 
me carkidge wid his hind heels,’ an’ he wud n’t undhertake 
the job on no wages, so the king begun to be af eared that his 
loaf was dough. 

“ But it happen’d av the Friday, this bein’ av a Chewsday, 
that the Pooka caught a sailor that had n’t been on land only 
long enough to get bilin’ dhrunk, an’ got him on his back, so 
jumped over the clift wid him lavin’ him dead enough, I go 
bail. Whin they come to sarch the sailor to see phat he had 
in his pockets, they found three long hairs round the third 
button av his top-coat. So they tuk thim to the king tellin’ 
him where they got thim, an’ he was greatly rejiced, bekase 
now he belaved he had the Pooka sure enough, so he ended 
his inehantmint. 

“ But as the avenin’ come, he riz a doubt in the mind av him 
thish-a-way. Ev the three hairs wor out av the Pooka’s tail, 
the charm ’ud be good enough, but if they was n’t, an’ was 
from his mane inshtead, or from a horse inshtead av a Pooka, 
the charm ’ud n’t work an’ the Pooka ’ud get atop av him wid 
all the feet he had at wanst an’ be the death av him immejitly. 
So this nate and outprobrious argymint shtruck the king wid 
great force an’ fur a bit, he was onaisey. But wid a little 
sarcumvintion, he got round it, for he confist an’ had absolu- 
tion so as he ’d be ready, thin he towld wan av the sarvints to 
come in an’ tell him afther supper, that there was a poor widdy 
in the boreen beyant the Corkschrew that wanted help that 
night, that it ’ud be an arriant av marcy he ’d be on, an’ so 
safe agin the Pooka if the charm did n’t howld. 


TAMING THE POOKA. 27 

“ ‘ Sure, phat ’ll be the good o’ that ? ’ says the man, ‘ It 
’ull be a lie, an’ won’t work.’ 

“ 6 Do you be aisey in yer mind,’ says the king to him agin, 
c do as yer towld an’ don’t argy, for that ’s a pint av metty- 
fisics,’ says he, faix it was a. dale av deep lamin’ he had, 
‘ that ’s a pint av mettyfisics an’ the more ye argy on thim 
subjics, the less ye know,’ says he, an’ it ’s thrue fur him. 
‘ Besides, aven if it ’s a lie, it ’ll desave the Pooka, that ’s no 
mettyfishian, an’ it ’s my belafe that the end is good enough 
for the manes,’ says he, a-thinking av the white mare. 

“ So, afther supper, as the king was settin’ afore the fire, 
an’ had the charm in his pocket, the sarvint come in and towld 
him about the widdy. 

u 6 Begob,’ says the king, like he was surprised, so as to 
desave the Pooka complately, ‘ Ev that ’s thrue, I must go 
relave her at wanst.’ So he riz an’ put on sojer boots, wid 
shpurs on ’em a f ut acrost, an’ tuk a long whip in his hand, for 
fear, he said, the widdy ’ud have dogs, thin wint to his chist 
an’ tuk his owld stockin’ an’ got a suv’rin out av it, — Och, 
’t was the shly wan he was, to do everything so well, — an’ 
wint out wid his right fut first, an’ the shpurs a-rattlin’ as he 
walked. 

“ He come acrost the yard, an’ up the hill beyant yon an’ 
round the corner, but seen nothin’ at all. Thin up the fut 
path round the Corkscrew an’ met niver a sowl but a dog 
that he cast a shtone at. But he did n’t go out av the road 
to the widdy’s, for he was afeared that if he met the Pooka 
an’ he caught him in a lie, not bein’ in the road to where he 
said he was goin,’ it ’ud be all over wid him. So he walked 
up an’ down bechuxt the owld church below there an’ the 
rath on the hill, an’ jist as the clock was shtrikin’ fur twelve, 
he heard a horse in front av him, as he was walkin’ down, so 


28 


IRISH WONDERS. 


he turned an’ wint the other way, gettin’ his charm ready, an’ 
the Pooka come up afther him. 

44 4 The top o’ the mornin’ to yer Honor,’ says the Pooka, 
as perlite as a Frinchman, for he seen be his close that the 
king was n’t a common blaggard like us, but was wan o’ the 
rale quolity. 

44 4 Me sarvice to ye,’ says the king to him agin, as bowld as 
a ram, an’ whin the Pooka heard him shpake, he got perliter 
than iver, an’ made a low bow an’ shcrape wid his fut, thin 
they wint on together an’ fell into discoorse. 

44 4 ’T is a black night for thravelin’,’ says the Pooka. 

44 4 Indade it is,’ says the king, 4 it ’s not me that ’ud be out 
in it, if it was n’t a case o’ needcessity. I ’m on an arriant av 
charity,’ says he. 

44 4 That ’s rale good o’ ye,’ says the Pooka to him, 4 and if 
I may make bowld to ax, phat ’s the needcessity ? ’ 

44 4 ’T is to relave a widdy-woman,’ says the king. 

44 4 Oho,’ says the Pooka, a-throwin’ back his head laughin’ 
wid great plazin’ness an’ nudgin’ the king wid his leg on the 
arrum, beways that it was a joke it was bekase the king said 
it was to relave a widdy he was goin’. 4 Oho,’ says the Pooka, 
4 ’t is mesilf that ’s glad to be in the comp’ny av an iligint jin- 
tleman that ’s on so plazin’ an arriant av marcy,’ says he. 
4 An’ how owld is the widdy-woman ? ’ says he, bustin’ wid the 
horrid laugh he had. 

44 4 Musha thin,’ says the king, gettin’ red in the face an’ not 
likin’ the joke the laste bit, for jist betune us, they do say 
that afore he married the quane, he was the laddy-buck wid 
the wimmin, an’ the quane’s maid towld the cook, that towld 
the footman, that said to the gardener, that towld the nabers 
that many ’s the night the poor king was as wide awake as a 
hare from sun to sun wid the quane a-gostherin’ at him about 


TAMING THE POOKA. 


29 


that same. More betoken, there was a widdy in it, that was 
as sharp as a rat-thrap an’ surrounded him whin he was young; 
an’ had n’t as much sinse as a goose, an’ was like to marry 
him at wanst in shpite av all his relations, as widdys undher- 
shtand how to do. So it ’s my consate that it was n’t dacint 
for the Pooka to be afther laughin’ that-a-way, an’ shows that 



avil sper’ts is dirthy blaggards that can’t talk wid jintlemin. 
6 Musha,’ thin, says the king, bekase the Pooka’s laughin’ was 
n’t agrayble to listen to, c I don’t know that same, fur I niver 
seen her, but, be jagers, I belave she ’s a hundherd, an’ as ugly 
as Belzebub, an’ whin her owld man was alive, they tell me 
she had a timper like a gandher, an’ was as aisey to manage as 


30 


IRISH WONDERS. 


an armful o’ cats/ says he. ‘ But she ’s in want, an’ I ’m afther 
bringin’ her a suv’rin/ says he. 

“ Well, the Pooka sayced his laughin’, fur he seen the king 
was very vexed, an’ says to him, ‘ And if it ’s plazin’, where 
does she live ? ’ 

t( ‘ At the ind o’ the boreen beyant the Corkschrew/ says the 
king, very short. 

“ ( Begob, that ’s a good bit,’ says the Pooka. 

“ c Faix, it ’s thrue for ye/ says the king, ‘ more betoken, 
it ’s up hill ivery fut o’ the way, an’ me back is bruk entirely 
wid the stapeness/ says he, be way av a hint he ’d like a ride. 

“ 6 Will yer Honor get upon me back/ says the Pooka. 
6 Sure I ’m afther goin’ that-a-way, an’ you don’t mind gettin’ 
a lift ? ’ says he, a-fallin’ like the stupid baste he was, into the 
thrap the king had made fur him. 

“ 6 Thanks/ says the king, ‘ I b’lave not. I ’ve no bridle 
nor saddle/ says he, ‘ besides, it ’s the shpring o’ the year, an’ 
I ’m af eared ye ’re sheddin’, an’ yer hair ’ull come aff an’ spile 
me new britches/ says he, lettin’ on to make axcuse. 

u ‘ Have no fear/ says the Pooka. 6 Sure I niver drop me 
hair. It ’s no ordhinary garron av a horse I am, but a most 
oncommon baste that ’s used to the quolity/ says he. 

“ ‘ Yer spache shows that/ says the king, the clever man 
that he was, to be perlite that-a-way to a Pooka, that ’s known 
to be a divil out-en-out, ‘ but ye must exqueeze me this avenin’, 
bekase, d’ye mind, the road ’s full o’ shtones an’ monsthrous 
stape, an’ ye look so young, I ’m afeared ye ’ll shtumble an’ 
give me a fall/ says he. 

“ ‘ Arrah thin/ says the Pooka, i it ’s thrue fur yer Honor, 
I do look young/ an’ he begun to prance on the road givin’ 
himself airs like an owld widdy man afther wantin’ a young 
woman, ‘ but me age is owlder than ye ’d suppoge. How owld 
’ud ye say I was/ says he, shmilin’. 



y 


0 








TAMING THE POOKA. 


33 


“ ‘ Begorra, divil a bit know 1/ says the king, ‘ but if it ’s 
agrayble to ye, I ’ll look in yer mouth an’ give ye an an- 
swer,’ says he. 

“ So the Pooka come up to him fair an’ soft an’ stratched 
his mouth like as he thought the king was wantin’ fur to climb 
in, an’ the king put his hand on his jaw like as he was goin’ 
to see the teeth he had : and thin, that minnit he shlipped the 
three hairs round the Pooka’s jaw, an’ whin he done that, he 
dhrew thim tight, an’ said the charm crossin’ himself the while, 
an’ immejitly the hairs wor cords av stale, an’ held the Pooka 
tight, be way av a bridle. 

“ ‘ Arra-a-a-h, now, ye bloody baste av a murtherin’ divil 
ye,’ says the king, pullin’ out his big whip that he had con- 
saled in his top-coat, an’ giving the Pooka a crack wid it un- 
dher his stummick, ‘ I ’ll give ye a ride ye won’t forgit in a 
hurry,’ says he, ‘ ye black Turk av a four-legged nagur an’ 
you shtaling me white mare,’ says he, hittin’ him agin. 

“ 6 Oh my,’ says the Pooka, as he felt the grip av the iron 
on his jaw an’ knewn he was undher an inchantmint, ‘ Oh 
my, phat ’s this at all,’ rubbin’ his breast wid his hind heel, 
where the whip had hit him, an’ thin jumpin’ wid his fore feet 
out to cotch the air an’ thryin’ fur to break away. 6 Sure I ’m 
ruined, I am, so I am,’ says he. 

“ ‘ It ’s thrue fur ye,’ says the king, ‘ begob it ’s the wan 
thrue thing ye iver said,’ says he, a-jumpin’ on his back, an’ 
givin’ him the whip an’ the two shpurs wid all his might. 

u Now I forgot to tell ye that whin the king made his in- 
chantmint, it was good fur siven miles round, and the Pooka 
knewn that same as well as the king an’ so he shtarted like a 
cunshtable was afther him, but the king was afeared to let him 
go far, thinkin’ he ’d do the siven miles in a jiffy, an’ the in- 
chantmint ’ud be broken like a rotten shtring, so he turned 
him up the Corkschrew. 


34 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ c I ’ll give ye all the axercise ye want/ says he, c in 
thravellin’ round this hill/ an’ round an’ round they wint, 
the king shtickin’ the big shpurs in him every jump an’ 
crackin’ him wid the whip till his sides run blood in shtrames 
like a mill race, an’ his schreams av pain wor heard all over 
the worruld so that the king av France opened his windy and 
axed the polisman why he did n’t shtop the fightin’ in the 



shtrate. Round an’ round an’ about the Corkschrew wint 
the king, a-lashin’ the Pooka, till his feet made the path ye 
see on the hill bekase he wint so often. 

“ And whin mornin’ come, the Pooka axed the king phat 
he ’d let him go fur, an’ the king was gettin’ tired an’ towld 
him that he must niver shtale another horse, an’ never kill 
another, man, barrin’ furrin blaggards that was n’t Irish, an’ 
whin he give a man a ride, he must bring him back to the 


TAMING THE POOKA. 


35 


shpot where he got him an’ lave him there. So the Pooka 
consinted, Glory be to God, an’ got aff, an’ that ’s the way 
he was tamed, an’ axplains how it was that Dennis O’Rourke 
was left be the Pooka in the ditch jist where he found him.” 

“ More betoken, the Pooka ’s an althered haste every way, 
fur now he dhrops his hair like a common horse, and it ’s 
often found sh tickin’ to the hedges where he jumped over, an’ 
they do say he does n’t shmell half as shtrong o’ sulfur as he 
used, nor the fire out o’ his nose is n’t so bright. But all the 
king did fur him ’ud n’t taiche him to be civil in his spache, 
an’ whin he meets ye in the way, he spakes just as much like 
a blaggard as ever. An’ it ’s out av divilmint entirely he does 
it, bekase he can be perlite as ye know be phat I towld ye av 
him sayin’ to the king, an’ that proves phat I said to ye that 
avil sper’ts can’t larn rale good manners, no matther how hard 
they thry. 

“ But the fright he got never left him, an’ so he kapes out 
av the highways an’ thravels be the futpaths, an’ so is n’t 
often seen. An’ it ’s my belafe that he can do no harrum at 
all to thim that fears God, an’ there ’s thim that says he niver 
shows himself nor meddles wid man nor mortial barrin’ 
they ’re in dhrink, an’ mebhe there ’s something in that too, 
fur it does n’t take much dhrink to make a man see a good 
dale.” 


THE SEXTON OF CASHEL. 



pLL over Ireland, from Cork to Bel- 
fast, from Dublin to Galway, are 
scattered the ruins of churches, ab- 
beys, and ecclesiastical buildings, 
the relics of a country once rich, 
prosperous and populous. These 
ruins raise their castellated walls and 
towers, noble even in decay, some- 
times in the midst of a village, 
crowded with the miserably poor, 
sometimes on a mountain, in every 
direction commanding magnificent prospects; sometimes on 
an island in one of the lakes, which, like emeralds in a setting 
of deeper green, gem the surface of the rural landscape and 
contribute to increase the beauty of scenery not surpassed in 
the world. 

Ages ago the voice of prayer and the song of praise ceased 
to ascend from these sacred edifices, and they are now visited 
only by strangers, guides, and parties of humble peasants, 
the foremost bearing on their shoulders the remains of a com- 
panion to be laid within the hallowed enclosure, for although 
the church is in ruins, the ground in and about it is still holy 
and in service when pious hands lay away in the bosom of 
earth the bodies of those who have borne the last burden, 
shed the last tear, and succumbed to the last enemy. But 
among all the pitiable spectacles presented in this un- 



THE ROCK OF CASHEL. Page 40, 














THE SEXTON OF CASHEL. 


39 


happy country, none is better calculated to inspire sad re- 
flections than a rural graveyard. The walls of the ruined 
church tower on high, with massive cornice and pointed win- 
dow ; within stand monuments and tombs of the Irish great ; 
kings, princes, and archbishops lie together, while about the 
hallowed edifice are huddled the graves of the poor ; here, 
sinking so as to be indistinguishable from the sod ; there, 
rising in new-made proportions ; yonder, marked with a 
wooden cross, or a round stick, the branch of a tree rudely 
trimmed, but significant as the only token bitter poverty 
could furnish of undying love; while over all the graves, 
alike of the high born and of the lowly, the weeds and net- 
tles grow. 

“ Sure there ’s no saxton, Sorr,” said car-man Jerry Mag- 
wire, in answer to a question, “ We dig the graves ourselves 
whin we put them away, an’ sometimes there ’s a fight in the 
place whin two berryin’s meet. Why is that ? Faith, it ’s not 
for us to be talkin’ o’ them deep subjects widout respict, but 
it ’s the belafe that the last wan berrid must be carryin’ 
wather all the time to the sowls in Purgathory till the next 
wan comes to take the place av him. So, ye mind, when two 
berryin’s happen to meet, aitch party is shtrivin’ to be done 
foorst, an’ wan thries to make the other lave aff, an’ thin 
they have it. Troth, Irishmen are too handy wid their fishts 
entirely, it ’s a weak pint wid ’em. But it ’s a sad sight, so 
it is, to see the graves wid the nettles on thim an’ the walls 
all tumblin’. It is n’t every owld church that has a care- 
taker like him of Cashel. Bedacl, he was betther nor a flock 
av goats to banish the weeds. 

“ Who was he ? Faith, I niver saw him but the wan time, 
an’ thin I had only a shot at him as he was turnin’ a corner, 
for it was as I was lavin’ Cormac’s chapel the time I wint to 


40 


IRISH WONDERS. 


Cashel on a pinance, bekase av a little throuble on me 
mind along av a pig that was n’t mine, but got mixed wid 
mine whin I was afther killin’ it. But, as I obsarved, it was. 
only a shot at him I had, for it was n’t aften that he was seen 
in the daytime, but done all his work in the night, an’ it 
is n’t me that ’ud be climbin’ the Rock av Cashel afther the 
sun ’ud go to slape. Not that there ’s avil sper’ts there, for 
none that ’s bad can set f ut on that holy ground day or night, 
but I ’m not afther wantin’ to meet a sper’t av any kind, even 
if it ’s good, for how can ye tell about thim. Sure aven the 
blessed saints have been desaved, an’ it ’s not for a sinner like 
me to be settin’ up for to know more than thimselves. But 
it was the long, bent body that he had, like he ’d a burdhen 
on his back, as they say, God be good to him, he had on his 
sowl, an’ a thin, white face wid the hair an’ beard hangin’ 
about it, an’ the great, blue eyes lookin’ out as if he was gaz- 
in’ on the other worruld. No, I did n’t run down the rock, 
but I did n’t walk aither, but jist bechuxt the two, wid a 
sharp eye round the corners that I passed. No more do I 
belave there was harrum in him, but, God’s prisence be about 
us, ye can’t tell. 

“ He was a man o’ Clare be the name av Paddy O’Sullivan, 
an’ lived on the highway betune Crusheen an’ Ennis, an’ they 
do say that whin he was a lad, there was n’t a finer to be 
seen in the County ; a tall, shtrappin’ young felly wid an eye 
like a bay’net, an’ a fisht like a shmith, an’ the fut an’ leg av 
him ’ud turn the hearts o’ half the wimmin in the parish. 
An’ they was all afther him, like they always do be whin a 
man is good lookin’, sure I ’ve had a little o’ that same ex- 
parience mesilf. Ye need n’t shmile. I know me head has 
no more hair on it than an egg, an’ I think me last tooth ’ull 
come out tomorrer, bad cess to the day, but they do say that 


THE SEXTON OF CASHEL. 


41 


forty years ago, I cud have me pick av the gurruls, an’ mebbe 
they ’re mishtaken an’ mebbe not. But I was sayin’, the 
gurruls were aftber Paddy like rats afther chaze, an’ sorra a 
wan o’ tbirn but whin she spied him on the road, ’ud shlip be- 
hind the hedge to shmooth her locks a bit an’ set the shawl 
shtraight on her head. An’ whin there was a bit av a dance, 
niver a boy ’ud get a chance till Paddy made his chice to 
dance wid, an’ sorra a good word the rest o’ the gurruls ’ud 
give that same. Och, the tongues that wimmin have ! Sure 
they ’re. sharper nor a draggin’s tooth. Faith, I know that 
well too, for I married two o’ them an’ larned a deal too 
afther doin’ it, an’ axin’ yer pardon, it ’s my belafe that if 
min knewn as much before marryin’ as afther, bedad, the 
owld maid population ’ud be greatly incrased. 

“ Howandiver, afther a bit, Paddy left carin’ for thim all, 
that, in my consate, is a moighty safe way, and begun to look 
afther wan. Her name was Nora 0’ Moore, an’ she was as 
clever a gurrul as ’ud be found bechuxt Limerick an’ Galway. 
She was kind o’ resarved like, wid a face as pale as a shroud, 
an’ hair as black as a crow, an’ eyes that looked at ye an’ 
never seen ye. No more did she talk much, an’ whin Paddy 
’ud be say in’ his fine spaches, she ’d listen wid her eyes cast 
down, an’ whin she ’d had enough av his palaver, she ’d jist 
look at him, an’ somehow Paddy felt that his p’liteness was 
n’t the thing to work wid. He cud n’t undhershtand her, 
an’ bedad, many ’s the man that ’s caught be not undher- 
shtandin’ thim. There ’s rivers that ’s quiet on top bekase 
they ’re deep, an’ more that ’s quiet bekase they ’re not deep 
enough to make a ripple, but phat ’s the differ if ye can’t 
sound thim, an’ whin a woman ’s quiet, begorra, it ’s not aisy 
to say if she ’s deep or shallow. But Nora was a deep wan, 
an’ as good as iver drew a breath. She thought a dale av 


42 


IRISH WONDERS. 


Paddy, only she ’d be torn limb from limb afore she ’d let 
him know it till be confist first. Well, my dear, Paddy wint 
on, at firsht it was only purtindin’ he was, an’ whin he found 
she cud n’t be tuk wid his chaff, he got in airnest, an’ afore 
he knewn it, he was dead in love wid Nora, an’ had as much 
show for gettin’ out agin as a shape in a bog, an’ sorra a bit 
did he know at all at all, whether she cared a traneen for 
him. It ’s funny entirely that whin a man thinks a woman 
is afther him, he ’s aff like a hare, but if she does n’t care a 
rap, begob, he ’ll give the nose aff his face to get her. So it 
was wid Paddy an’ Nora, axceptin’ that Paddy did n’t know 
that Nora wanted him as much as he wanted her. 

66 So, wan night, whin he was bringin’ her from a dance 
that they ’d been at, he said to her that he loved her betther 
than life an’ towld her would she marry him, an’ she axed 
was it jokin’ or in airnest he was, an’ he said cud she doubt 
it whin he loved her wid all the veins av his heart, an’ she 
trimbled, turnin’ paler than iver, an’ thin blushin’ rosy red 
for joy an’ towld him yes, an’ he kissed her, an’ they both 
thought the throuble was all over foriver. It ’s a way tliim 
lovers has, an’ they must he axcused, bekase it ’s the same 
wid thim all. 

“ But it was n’t at all, fur Nora had an owld squireen av a 
father, that was as full av maneness as eggs is av mate. Sure 
he was the divil entirely at home, an’ niver left off wid the 
crassness that was in him. The timper av him was spiled be 
rason o’ losing his hit o’ money wid cards an’ racin’, an’ like 
some min, he tuk it out wid his wife an’ dawther. There was 
only the three o’ thim in it, an’ they do say that whin he was 
crazy wid dhrink, he ’d bate thim right an’ lift, an’ turn thim 
out o’ the cabin into the night, niver heeding, the baste, phat 
5 ud come to thim. But they niver said a word thimselves, an’ 
the nabers only larned av it he seein’ thim. 


THE SEXTON OF CASHEL. 


43 


“ Well. Whin O’Moore was towld that Paddy was kapin’ 
comp’ny wid Nora, an’ the latther an’ her mother towld him 
she wanted fur to marry Paddy, the owld felly got tarin’ mad, 
fur he was as proud as a paycock, an’ though he ’d nothin’ 
himself, he riz agin the match, an’ all the poor mother an’ 
Nora cud say ’ud n’t sthir him. 



u 6 Sure I ’ve nothin’ agin him,’ he ’d say, ( barrin’ he ’s as 
poor as a fiddler, an’ I want Nora to make a good match.’ 

u Now the owld felly had a match in his mind fur Nora, 
a lad from Tipperary, whose father was a farmer there, an’ 
had a shmart bit av land wid no end av shape grazin’ on 
it, an’ the Tipperary boy was n’t bad at all, only as shtupid as 
a donkey, an’ whin he ’d come to see Nora, bad cess to the 


44 


IRISH WONDERS. 


word he ’d to say, only look at her a bit an’ thin fall aslape 
an’ knock his head agin the wall. But he wanted her, an’ his 
father an’ O’Moore put their heads together over a glass an’ 
aggrade that the young wans ’ud be married. 

“ c Sure I don’t love him a bit, father,’ Nora ’ud say. 

“ ‘ Be aff wid yer nonsinse,’ he ’d say to her. * Phat does it 
matther about love, whin he ’s got more nor a hunderd shape. 
Sure I wud n’t give the wool av thim fur all the love in Clare,’ 
says he, an’ wid that the argymint ’ud end. 

“ So Nora to wid Paddy an’ Paddy said he ’d not give her 
up for all the men in Tipperary or all the shape in Ireland, 
an’ it was aggrade that in wan way or another, they ’d be 
married in spite av owld O’ Moore, though Nora hated to do it, 
bekase, as I was afther tellin’ ye, she was a good gurrul, an’ 
wint to mass an’ to her duty reg’lar. But like the angel that 
she was, she towld her mother an’ the owld lady was agrayble, 
an’ so Nora consinted. 

“ But O’Moore was shrewder than a fox whin he was sober, 
an’ that was whin he ’d no money to shpend in dhrink, an’ 
this bein’ wan o’ thim times, he watched Nora an’ begun to 
suspicion somethin’. So he made belave that everything was 
right an’ the next time that Murphy, that bein’ the name o’ 
the Tipperary farmer, came, the two owld fellys settled it 
that O’Moore an’ Nora ’ud come to Tipperary av the Winsday 
afther, that bein’ the day o’ the fair in Ennis that they knew 
Paddy ’ud be at, an’ whin they got to Tipperary, they ’d 
marry Nora an’ young Murphy at wanst. So owld Murphy 
was to sind the car afther thim an’ everything was made sure. 
So, av the Winsday, towards noon, says owld O’Moore to 
Nora, — 

u i Be in a hurry now, me child, an’ make yersel’ as fine 
as ye can, an’ Murphy’s car ’ull be here to take us to the 
fair.’ 


THE SEXTON OF CASHEL. 


45 


“ Nora did n’t want to go, for Paddy was cornin’ out in the 
afthernoon, misthrustin’ that owld O’Moore ’ud be at the fair. 
But O’Moore only towld her to make haste wid hersilf or 
they ’d be late, an’ she did. So the car came, wid a boy 
dhriving, an’ owld O’Moore axed the boy if he wanted to go to 
the fair, so that Nora cud n’t hear him, an’ the boy said yes, 
an’ O’Moore towld him to go an’ he ’d dlirive an’ bring him 
back tomorrer. S*o the boy wint away, an’ O’Moore an’ Nora 
got up an’ shtarted. Whin they came to the crass-road, 
O’Moore tuk the road to Tipperary. 

“ ‘ Sure father, ye ’re wrong,’ says Nora, ‘ that ’s not the 
way.’ 

u ‘ No more is it,’ said the owld desayver, ‘ but I ’m afther 
wantin’ to see a frind o’ mine over here a bit an’ we ’ll come 
round to the Ennis road on the other side,’ says he. 

u So Nora thought no more av it, but whin they wint on 
an’ on, widout shtoppin’ at all, she begun to be disquisitive 
agin. 

“ ‘ Father, is it to Ennis or not ye ’re takin’ me,’ says she. 

“ Now, be this time, they ’d got on a good bit, an’ the 
owld villin seen it was no use thryin’ to desave her any 
longer. 

“‘I’m not,’ says he, ‘ but it ’s to Tipperary ye ’re goin’, 
where ye ’re to be married to Misther Murphy this blessed 
day, so ye are, an’ make no throuble about it aither, or it ’ll 
be the worse for ye,’ says he, lookin’ moighty black. 

u Well, at first Nora thought her heart ’ud shtand still. 

‘ Sure, Father dear, ye don’t mane it, ye' cud n’t be so cruel. 
It ’s like a blighted tree I ’d be, wid that man,’ an’ she 
thried to jump aff the car, but her father held her wid a grip 
av stale. 

“ ‘ Kape still,’ says he wid his teeth closed like a vise. ‘ If 


46 


IRISH WONDERS. 


ye crass me, I ’m like to murdher ye. It ’s me only escape 
from prison, for I’m in debt an’ Murphy ’ull help me,’ says 
he. ‘ Sure,’ says he, saftenin’ a bit as he seen the white face 
an’ great pleadin’ eyes, ‘ Sure ye ’ll be happy enough wid 
Murphy. He loves ye, an’ ye can love him, an’ besides, think 
o’ the shape.’ 

“ But Nora sat there, a poor dumb thing, wid her eyes 
lookin’ deeper than iver wid the misery that was in thim. 
An’ from that minit, she did n’t spake a word, but all her 
sowl was detarmined that she ’d die afore she ’d marry Mur- 
phy, but how she ’d get out av it she did n’t know at all, but 
watched her chance to run. 

“ Now it happened that owld O’Moore, bein’ disturbed in 
his mind, mistuk the way, an’ whin he come to the crass-roads, 
wan to Tipperary an’ wan to Cashel, he tuk the wan for the 
other, an’ whin the horse thried to go home to Tipperary, he 
wud n’t let him, but pulled him into the Cashel road. Faix, he 
might have knewn that if he ’d let the baste alone, he ’d take 
him right, fur horses knows a dale more than ye ’d think. 
That horse o’ mine is only a common garron av a baste, but 
he tuk me from Bally vaughn to Lisdoon Varna wan night 
whin it was so dark that ye cud n’t find yer nose, an’ wint be 
the rath in a gallop, like he ’d seen the good people. But 
niver mind, I ’ll tell ye the shtory some time, only I was 
thinkin’ O’ Moore might have knewn betther. 

“ But they tuk the Cashel road an’ wint on as fast as they 
cud, for it was afthernoon an’ gettin’ late. An’ O’Moore kept 
lookin’ about an’ wonderin’ that he did n’t know the coun- 
thry, though he ’d niver been to Tipperary but wanst, an’ 
afther a while, he gev up that he was lost entirely. No more 
wud he ax the people on the road, but gev thim ‘ God save 
ye ’ very short, for he was af eared Nora might make throuble. 


THE SEXTON OF CASHEL. 


47 


An’ by an’ by, it come on to rain, an’ whin they turned the 
corner av a hill, he seen the Rock o’ Cashel wid the churches 
on it, an’ thin he stopped. 

“ 6 Pliat ’s this at all/ says he. * Faix, if that is n’t Cashel 
I ’ll ate it, an’ we ’ve come out o’ the way altogether.’ 

“ Nora answered him niver a word, an’ he shtarted to turn 
round, but whin he looked at the horse, the poor baste was 
knocked up entirely. 

“‘We ’ll go on to Cashel,’ says he, ‘ an’ find a shebeen, 
an’ go back in the mornin’. It ’s hard luck we ’re afther 
havin’,’ says he. 

■“ So they wint on, an’ jist afore they got to the Rock, they 
seen a nate lodgin’ house 
be the road an’ wint in. He 
left Nora to sit be the fire, 
while he wint to feed the 
horse, an’ whin he come 
back in a minit, he looked 
for her, but faith, she ’d 
given him the shlip an’ was 
gone complately. 

“ ‘ Where is me daw- 
ther ? ’ says he. 

“ 6 Faith, I dunno,’ says 
the maid. ‘ She walked out 
av the dure on the minit,’ 
says she. 

“ Owld O’ Moore run, an’ 

Satan an’ none but himself 
turned him in the way she 
was afther takin.’ God be good to thim, no wan iver knewn 
phat tuk place, but whin they wint wid a lanthern to sarch 



48 


IRISH WONDERS. 


fur thim whin they did n’t raturn, they found the marks o’ 
their feet on the road to the strame. Half way down the 
path they picked up Nora’s shawl that was torn an’ flung 
on the ground an’ fut marks in plenty they found, as if he 
had caught her an’ thried to howld her an’ cud n’t, an’ on 
the marks wint to the high bank av the strame, that was a 
torrent be razon av the rain. An’ there they ended wid a big 
slice o’ the bank fallen in, an’ the sarchers crassed thimselves 
wid fright an’ wint back an’ prayed for the repose av their 
sowds. 

“ The next day they found thim, a good Irish mile down 
the strame, owld O’Moore wid wan hand liowlding her gown 
an’ the other wan grippin’ her collar an’ the clothes half torn 
aff her poor cowld corpse, her hands stratched out afore her, 
wid the desperation in her heart to get away, an’ her white 
face wid the great eyes an’ the light gone out av thim, the 
poor craytliur, God give her rest, an’ so to us all. 

“ They laid thim dacintly, wid candles an’ all, an’ the wake 
that they had was shuparb, fur the shtory was towld in all 
the counthry, wid the vartues av Nora; an’ the O’Brian’s 
come from Ennis, an’ the O’Moore’s from Crusheen, an’ the 
Murphy’s an’ their frinds from Tipperary, an’ more from 
Clonmel. There was a power av atin’ an’ slathers av dhrink 
fur thim that wanted it, fur, d’ ye mind, thim of Cashel 
thried fur to show the rale Irish hoshpitality, bekase O’Moore 
an’ Nora were sint there to die an’ they thought it was their 
juty to thrate thim well. An’ all the County Clare an’ Tip- 
perary was at the berryin’, an’ they had three keeners, the 
best that iver was, wan from Ennis, wan from Tipperary, an’ 
wan from Limerick, so that the praises av Nora wint on day 
an’ night till the berryin’ was done. An’ they made Nora’s 
grave in Cormac’s Chapel just in front o’ the Archbishop’s 


THE SEXTON OF CASHEL. 


49 


tomb in the wall an’ berried her first, an’ tuk O’Moore as far 
from her as they cud get him, an’ put his grave as dost be 
the wall as they cud go fur the shtones an’ jist ferninst the 
big gate on the left hand side, an’ berried him last, an’ sorra 
the good word they had fur him aither. 

66 Poor Paddy wint nayther to the wake nor to the berryin’, 
fur afther they towld him the news, he sat as wan in a 
dhrame, no more cud they rouse him. He ’d go to his work 
very quite, an’ niver shpake a word. An’ so it was, about a 
fortnight afther, he says to his mother, says he, 6 Mother I 
seen Nora last night an’ she stood be me side an’ laid her 
hand on me brow, an’ says “ Come to Cashel, Paddy dear, an’ 
be wid me.” ’ An’ his mother was frighted entirely, for she 
parsaved he was wrong in his head. She thried to aise his 
mind, but the next night he disappared. They folly ’d him 
to Cashel, but he dodged an’ kept from thim complately whin 
they come an’ so they left him. In the day he ’d hide an’ 
slape, an’ afther night, Nora’s sper’t ’ud mate him an’ walk 
wid him up an’ down the shtones av the Chapel an’ undher 
the arches av the Cathaydral, an’ he cared fur her grave, an’ 
bekase she was berried there, fur the graves av all thim that 
shlept on the Rock. No more had he any f rinds, but thim o’ 
Cashel ’ud lave pitaties an’ bread where he ’d see it an’ so he 
lived. Fur sixty wan years was he on the Rock an’ never left 
it, but he ’d sometimes show himself in the day whin there was 
a berryin’, an’ say, ‘ Ye ’ve brought me another frind,’ an’ 
help in the work, an’ never was there a graveyard kept like 
that o’ Cashel. 

u When he got owld, an’ where he cud look into the other 
worruld, Nora came ivery night an’ brought more wid her, 
sper’ts av kings an’ bishops that rest on Cashel, an’ there ’s 
thim that ’s seen the owld man walkin’ in Cormac’s Chapel, 


50 


IRISH WONDERS. 


Nora holdin’ him up an’ him discoorsin’ wid the mighty dead. 
They found him wan day, cowld an’ shtill, on Nora’s grave, 
an’ laid him be her side, God rest his sowl, an’ there he slapes 
to-day, God be good to him. 



u They said he was only a poor owld innocent, but all is 
aqualized, an’ thim that ’s despised sometimes have betther 
comp’ny among the angels than that of mortials.” 



SATAN’S CLOVEN HOOF. 


the beautiful traits of the 
Irish character, none is 
more prominent than the 
religious element. Philoso- 
phers declare that the wor- 
shipping principle is strong 
in proportion to the lack of 
happiness in the circum- 
stances of life, and at first 
glance there seems a degree 
of truth in the statement; 
for the rich, enjoying their 
riches, are likely to be contented and to look no further than 
this world ; while the poor, oppressed and ground to the earth 
by those whom they feel to be no better than themselves, hav- 
ing that innate sense of justice common to all men, and dis- 
cerning the inequality of worldly lots, are not slow to place 
implicit belief in the doctrine of a final judgment, at which all 
inequalities will be righted, and both rich and poor will stand 
side by side ; the former gaining no advantage from his riches, 
the latter being at no disadvantage from his poverty. 

There is, however, good reason to believe that in the days 
of Ireland’s greatness there was the same strength of devotion 
as at present. Ireland is so full of ruined churches and ec- 
clesiastical buildings as to give color of truth to the statement 
of a recent traveller, “ it is a country of ruins.” Rarely is the 
traveller out of sight of the still standing walls of a long de- 
serted church, and not infrequently the churches are found 



52 


IRISH WONDERS. 


in groups. The barony of Forth, in Wexford, though com- 
prising a territory of only 40,000 acres, contains the ruins of 
eighteen churches, thirty-three chapels, two convents, and a 
hospital of vast proportions. Nor is this district exceptional, 
for at Glendalough, Clon-mac-nois, Inniscathy, Inch Herrin, 
and Innis Kealtra, there are groups of churches, each group 
having seven churches, the edifices of goodly size, and at Clon- 
ferth and Holy Cross, there are seven chapels in each town, 
so close together as to cause wonder whether all were called 
into use. 

One manifestation of the religious element of the Irish na- 
ture is seen in the profound reverence for the memory of the 
saints. Of these, Ireland claims, according to one authority, 
no less than seventy-five thousand, and it is safe to say that 
the curious inquirer might find one or more legends of each, 
treasured up in the unwritten folk-lore of the country districts. 
To the disadvantage of the minor saints, however, most of the 
stories cluster round a few well-known names, and nothing de- 
lights the Irish story-teller more than to relate legends of the 
saints, which he does with a particularity as minute in all its 
details as though he had stood by the side of the saint, had 
seen everything that was done, and heard every word that was 
spoken ; supplying missing links in the chain of the story 
from a ready imagination, and throwing over the whole the 
glamour of poetic fancy inseparable from the Irish nature. 

The neighborhood of Glendalough, County Wicklow, is sa- 
cred to the memory of Saint Kevin, and abounds with legends 
of his life and works. The seven churches which, according 
to tradition, were built there under his direction, are now 
mostly in ruins ; his bed, a hollow in a precipice, is still shown, 
together with his kitchen and the altar at which he once min- 
istered. In the graveyard of one of the churches is a curious 


53 




satan's cloven hoof. 

stone cross, of considerable size, evidently monumental, 
though the inscription has been so defaced as to be illegible. 
On the front of the cross there is a deep indentation much re- 
sembling that made by the hoof of a cow in soft earth, the 
bottom of the indentation being deepest at the sides and some- 
what ridged in the middle. Concerning this cross and the de- 



pression in its face, the following legend was related by an old 
peasant of the neighborhood. 

“Ye must know, that among all the saints that went to 
heaven from Ireland's sod, there is n’t wan, barrin’ Saint Pat- 
rick, that stands in a betther place than the blessed Saint 
Kevin av Glendalough, fur the wondherful things that he done 
is past all tellin’. ’T was he that built all the churches ye see 


54 


IRISH WONDERS. 


in the vale here, an’ when he lived, he owned all the land 
round about, fur he restored King O’Toole’s goose, that the 
king had such divarshun in, when it was too ould to fly, so 
the king gev him all that the goose ’ud fly over, an’ when the 
goose got her wings agin, she was so merry that she flew over 
mighty near all the land that King O’Toole had before she 
come back at all, so he got it. 

“ ’T was he too that put out o’ the counthry the very last 
sarpint that was left in it, afther Saint Patrick had druv the 
rest into the say, fur he met the baste wan day as he was walk- 
in’ in the hills and tuk him home wid him to give him the bit 
an’ sup, an’ the sarpint got as dhrunk as a piper, so Saint 
Kevin put him in a box an’ nailed it up an’ flung it into the 
say, where it is to this blessed day. 

“ But ’t is my belafe that the besht job o’ work he ever 
done was markin’ the divil so if you ’d meet him an the road, 
you ’d know in a minnit that it was himself an’ no other that 
was in it, an’ so make ready, aither fur to run away from him, 
or to fight him wid prayin’ as fast as ye cud, bekase, ye see, 
it ’s no use fur to shtrive wid him any other way, seein’ that 
no waypon can make the laste dint on his carkidge. 

“ In thim days, an’ before phat tuk place I ’m tellin’ ye av, 
the divil was all as wan as a man, a tall felly like a soger, wid 
a high hat cornin’ to a pint an’ feathers on it, an’ fine boots 
an’ shpurs an’ a short red jacket wid a cloak over his shoulder 
an’ a soord be his side, as fine as any gintleman av’ the good 
ould times. So he used to go about the counthry, desavin’ 
men an’ wimmin, the latther bein’ his chice as bein’ aisier fur 
to desave, an’ takin’ thim down wid him to his own place, an’ 
it was a fine time he was havin’ entirely, an’ everything his 
own way. Well, as he was thravellin’ about, he heard wan 
day av Saint Kevin an’ the church he was afther buildin’ an’ 


satan’s cloven hoof. 


55 


the haythens he was convartin’ an’ he says to himself, ‘ Sure 
this won’t do. I must give up thrillin’ an’ look afther me 
bizness, or me affairs ’ull go to the dogs, so they will.’ 

“ It was in Kerry he was when he heard the news, an’ was 
havin’ a fine time there, fur when Saint Patrick convarted Ire- 
land, he did n’t go to Kerry, but only looked into it an’ blessed 
it an’ hurried on, but though he did n’t forget it, intindin’, I 
belave, to go back, the divil tuk up his quarthers there, to 
make it as sure as he cud. But when he heard av Saint Ke- 
vin’s doin’s, it was too much fur him, so he shtarted an’ come 
from Kerry to Glendalough wid wan jump, an’ there sure 
enough, the walls o’ the church were risin’ afore his eyes, an’ as 
he stud on that hill he heard the avenin’ song o’ the monks 
that were helpin’ Saint Kevin in the work. So the divil was 
tarin’ mad, an’ stud on the brow o’ the hill, cursin’ to himself 
an’ thinkin’ that if any more churches got into Ireland, his job 
o’ work ’ud be gone, an’ he ’d betther go back to England 
where he come from. He made up his mind though, that 
he ’d do fur Saint Kevin if he cud, but mind ye, the blessed 
saint was so well beknownst to all the counthry, that the divil 
was af eared to tackle him. So he laid about in the grass, on 
his breast like a sarpint fur three or four days till they were 
beginnin’ to put the roof on, and then he thought he ’d thry. 

“ Now I must tell ye wan thing. The blessed saint was at 
that time only a young felly, though they don’t make ’em 
any betther than he was. When he left home, he ’d a shweet- 
heart be the name o’ Kathleen, an’ she loved him betther than 
her life, an’ so did he her in that degray that he ’d lay down 
an’ die on the shpot fur the love av her, but his juty called 
him fur to be God’s priest, an’ he turned his back on father 
an’ mother an’ saddest av all on Kathleen, though it was like 
tarin’ out his heart it was, an’ came to Glendalough. Kath- 


56 


IRISH WONDERS. 


leen was like to die, but afther a bit, she got over it a little 
an’ went into a convent, for, says she, { I ’ll marry no wan, 
an’ ’nil meet him in heaven.’ But Saint Kevin did n’t know 
phat had become av her, an’ thried hard not to think av her, 
but wanst in a while the vision av her ’ud come back to him 
like the mem’ry av a beautiful dhrame. 

“ Now about this time, while the divil w r as layin’ about in 
the bushes a-watchin’ the work, an’ the tower of the big 
church was liftin’ itself above the trees, the blessed saint be- 
gun to be onaisy in his mind, fur, says he to himself, ‘ Things 
is too aisy entirely. It ’s just thim times when all is goin’ on 
as smooth as a duck on a pond that the divil comes down like a 
fox on a gosliiT an’ takes every wan unbeknownst, so wins the 
vict’ry. I ’ll have a care, fur afther the sunshine comes the 
shtorm,’ says he. So that avenin’ he ordhered his monks to 
say a thousand craydos, an’ two thousand paters an’ aves, an’ 
afther that was done, he got in his boat an’ crassed the lake. 
He climbed up to his bed above ye there, an’ said his baids 
agin an’ went to slape, but the divil was watchin’ him like a 
hawk, for he ’d laid a thrap fur the blessed saint to catch him 
wid, that was thish-a-way. 

“ Every body knows how that Satan is shlicker than a 
weasel, an’ has a mem’ry like a miser’s box that takes in 
everything an’ lets nothin’ go out. When ye* do anything, 
sorra a bit av it ’scapes the divil, an ? he hugs it dost till a 
time comes when he can make a club av it to bate ye wid, 
an’ so he does. The owld felly remimbered all that passed 
betune Kathleen an’ the blessed saint, an’ he knewn how 
hard it was fur Saint Kevin to forgit her, so he thought 
he ’d put him in a fix. Afther the saint had cuddled up in 
his shtraw wid his cloak over him an’ was shnoring away as 
snug as a flea in a blanket, comes the divil, a-climbin’ up the 


Satan’s cloven hoof. 


57 


rock, in the exact image o’ the young Kathleen. Ye may 
think it quare, but it ’s no wondher to thim that undherstands 
it, fur the divil can take any shape he plazes an’ look like any 
wan he wants to, an’ so he does for the purpose av temptin’ 
us poor sinners to disthruction, but there ’s wan thing be 
which he ’s always known ; when ye ’ ve given up to him or when 
ye ’ve baten him out o’ the face, no matther which, he ’s got 
to throw aff the disguise that ’s on him an’ show you who he 
is, an’ when he does it, it is n’t the iligant, dressed-up divil that 
ye see an’ that I was just tellin’ ye av, but the rale, owld, black 
nagur av a rannychorus, widout a haporth o’ rags to the back 
av him, an’ his horns an’ tail a-shtickin’ out, an’ his eyes as 
big as an oxen’s an’ shinin’ like fire, an’ great bat’s wings on 
him, an’, savin’ yer prisince, the most nefairius shmell o’ sulfur 
ye ever shmelt. But before, he looks all right, no matther 
phat face he has, an’ it ’s only be the goodness o’ God that 
the divil is bound fur to show himself to ye, bekase, Glory be 
to God, it ’s his will that men shall know who they ’re dalin’ 
wid, an’ if they give up to the divil, an’ afther findin’ out 
who ’s in it, go on wid the bargain they ’ve made, sure the 
fault is their own, an’ they go to hell wid their eyes open, an’ 
if they bate him, he ’s got to show himself fur to let thim see 
phat they ’ve escaped. 

“ W ell, I was afther say in’, the divil was climbin’ up the 
rock in the form o’ Kathleen, an’ come to the saint’s bed an’ 
teched him an the shouldher. The blessed saint was layin’ 
there belike dhraming o’ Kathleen, fur sure, there was no 
harm in that, an’ when he woke up an’ seen her settin’ be his 
side, he thought the eyes ’ud lave him. 

“ ‘ Kathleen,’ says he, ‘ is it y oursilf that ’s in it, an’ me 
thin kin’ I ’d parted from you forever ? ’ 

“ ‘ It is,’ says the ould desaver, ‘ an’ no other, Kevin dar- 
lint, an’ I ’ve come to shtay wid ye.’ 


58 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ ‘ Sure darlint,’ says the saint, ‘ ye know how it bruk me 
heart entirely to lave ye, no more wud I have done it, but be 
the will o’ God. Ye know I loved ye, an’ God forgive me, 
I ’m afeared I love ye still, but it is n’t right, Kathleen. Go 
in pace, in the name o’ God, an’ lave me,’ says he. 

“‘No Kevin,’ says Satan, a-throwin’ himself on Kevin’s 
breast, wid both arrums round his neck, ‘ I ’ll never lave ye,’ 
lettin’ an to cry an’ dhrop tears an the face o’ the blessed 
saint. 

“ It ’s no aisy matther to say no to a woman anyhow, aven 
to an ugly woman, but when it ’s a good-lookin’ wan that ’s 
in it, an’ she axin’ ye wid her arrums round ye an’ the crystal 
dhrops like that many dimunds failin’ from her eyes that look 
at ye like shtars through a shower av rain, begob it ’s meself 
that does n’t undhershtand why Saint Kevin did n’t give up 
at wanst, an’ so he wud if he had n’t been the blessed saint 
that he was. But he was mightily flusthered, an’ no wondher, 
an’ stud there wid his breast hayvin’, a-shtrivin’ to resist the 
timptation to thrade a crown in heaven fur a love on airth. 

“ ‘ Lave this place, Kevin,’ says the tempther, ( an’ come 
wid me, we ’ll go away an’ be happy together forever,’ an’ 
wid that word, an’ as the fate av the saint was trimblin’ in 
the balances, the holy angels o’ God stud beside him, an’ wan 
whishpered in his ear that the Kathleen he loved before was 
a pure, good woman, an’ that she ’d ’a’ died afore she ’d come 
to him that-a-way. 

“ ‘ No,’ says he, wid sudden shtrength. ‘ It ’s not Kathleen 
that ’s in it, but an avil sper’t. God’s prisence be about us ! 
Get you gone Satan an’ sayce to throuble me,’ an’ that minnit 
the blessed saint jumped up aff the ground an’ wid his two 
feet gev the owld rayprobate a thunderin’ kick in the stum- 
mick, an’ when he doubled up wid the pain an’ fell back an’ 


SATAN S CLOVEN HOOF. 


59 


clapped his hands together on the front av him, Saint Kevin 
gev him another in his rare, axin’ yer pardon, that sent him 
clane over the clift, wid Saint Kevin gatherin’ shtones an’ 
dingin’ thim afther him wid all the might that was in him. 
So the minnit the saint kicked him the very foorst kick, 
Kathleen disappeared, an’ there was the owld black Belzebub 
a-tumblin’ over, an’ failin’ down to the lake, holdin’ his stum- 
mick an’ thryin’ hard to catch himself wid his wings afore 
he ’d hit the wather. But he did by the time he got to the 
bottom an’ flew away, bellerin’ worse nor a hull with a dog 
hangin’ to his nose, so that all the monks woke wid fright, 
an’ cud n’t go to shlape agin till they ’d said a craydo an’ 
five aves apiece, but the blessed saint set be his bed a-sayin’ 
his baids the rest o’ the night wid a pile o’ shtones convay- 
nient to his hand fur fear the divil ’ud come back. But 
Satan flew over an that hill an’ rubbed himself before an’ be- 
hind too, where the saint had kicked him, an’ did n’t go back, 
for he ’d enough o’ the saint fur that time. But he was 
mightily vexed, an’ not to lose the chance fur to do some mis- 
chief before he ’d go away, he pulled down all the walls that 
the poor monks had built that day. 

“ Now there ’s thim that says that it was the rale Kathleen 
that Saint Kevin kicked over the clift, but sure that ’s not 
thrue, fur it ’s not in an Irishman to thrate a woman that- 
a-way, that makes me belave that the shtory I ’m tellin’ ye 
was the thrue shtory an’ that it was n’t Kathleen at all, 
but Satan, that Saint Kevin thrated wid such onpoliteness, 
an’ my blessin’ an him fur that same, fur he come out very 
well axceptin’ five or six blisthers on his face, where the divil’s 
tears touched him, that ’s well known to make blisthers on 
phatever they touch. 

“ W ell, as I was sayin’, he pulled down the church walls, 


60 


IRISH WONDERS. 


an’ the monks put thim up agin, an’ the next mornin’ they 
were down, an’ so fur a good bit the contist went an betune 
the divil an’ the monks, a-shtrivin’ if they cud build up 
fashter than he cud pull down, fur he says to himself, Satan 
did, ‘ Jagers, I can’t be losin’ me time here widout doin’ 
something, nor, bedad, no more can I tell how to rache the 
saint widout sarcumspectin’ him.’ 



“ But the saint bate him at that game, for wan night, 
afther the work was done, he put half the monks on the wall 
to watch there the night, an’ when Satan come flyin’ along 
like the dirthy bat that he was, there was the monks all along 
be the day’s job, aitch wan a-sayin’ his baids as fast as he cud 
an’ a bottle o’ holy wather be his side to throw at the divil 
when he ’d come. So he went from thim an’ be takin’ turns 
at watchin’ an’ workin’, they finished the church. 

“ In coorse o’ time, Saint Kevin wanted another church an’ 


satan’s cloven hoof. 


61 


begun to build it too, for he said, ‘ Begob, I ’ll have that 
church done be fall if every grain o’ sand in Glendalough 
becomes a divil an’ rises up fur to purvint it,’ an’ so he did, 
Glory be to God, but at first was bothered to git the money 
fur to raise the walls. W ell, wan day as he was in the bother, 
he was walkin’ an the hills, an’ he heard the clattherin’ av a 
horse’s feet behind him an the road, an’ afore he cud turn 
round, up comes the most illigant black horse ye ever seen, 
an’ a tall gintleman a ridin’ av him, wid all the look av a 
soger, a broad hat on the head av him, an’ a silk jacket wid 
goold trimmin’s, an’ shtripes on his britches, an’ gloves to his 
elbows, an’ soord an’ shpurs a-jinglin’, the same as he was a 
rich lord. 

“ ‘ God save ye,’ says the saint. 

“ ‘ God save ye kindly,’ says the gintleman, an’ they 
walked an together an’ fell into convarsin’. 

“ ‘ I ’m towld ye ’re afther buildin’ another church,’ says 
the gintleman. 

“ 6 It ’s thrue for ye,’ says the saint, ‘ but it ’s meself that ’s 
bothered about that same, for I ’ve no money,’ says he. 

“ 6 That ’s too bad,’ says the gintleman ; ‘ have ye axed for 
help ? ’ says he. 

“ ‘ Faix, indade I have,’ says the saint, but the times is 
hard, an’ the money goin’ out o’ the counthry to thim blag- 
gard landlords in England,’ says he. 

“ 6 It ’s right ye are,’ says the gintleman, ‘ but I ’ve hopes 
o’ betther times when the tinants get the land in their own 
hands,’ says he. ‘ I ’m goin’ to right thim avils. I ’m the 
new Lord Liftinant,’ says he, ‘ an’ able to help ye an the job, 
undher a proper undhershtandin’,’ says he. 

“ At foorst Saint Kevin was that surprised that he ’d like 
to dhrop an the road, fur he had n’t heard av the ’pintmint av 


62 


IRISH WONDERS. 


a new Lord Liftinant, but he raizoned wid himself that it cud 
aisily be done widout his knowin’ av it, an’ so he thought 
he ’d a shtrake av luck in seem’ av him. 

“ ‘ God be good to yer Lordship/ says he, ‘ an’ make yer 
bed in the heavens, an’ it ’s thankful I ’d be fur any shmall 
favors ye plaze to give, fur it ’s very poor we are.’ 

“ c An’ phat ’ud ye say to a prisint av tin thousand pound/ 
says the gintleman, ‘ purvided ye spind it an the church ye 
have an’ not in buildin’ a new wan/ says the gintleman, an’ 
wdd that word, Saint Kevin knew the ould inimy, an’ shtarted 
at him. 

“ But the divil had enough o’ Saint Kevin’s heels, for he ’d 
felt the kick he cud give wid ’em, an’ faix, the blessed saint 
was as well sarcumstanced in that quarther as a donkey, an’ 
Belzebub knew that same, so he niver stayed, but when he 
saw Saint Kevin cornin’, immejitly the black horse changed 
into a big dhraggin, an’ the illigant close dhrapped aff the 
divil an’ in his own image he went aff shpurrin’ the dhraggin, 
he an’ the baste flappin’ their wings as fast as they cud to get 
out of the saint’s way an’ lavin’ afther thim the shmell av sul- 
fur that shtrong that the blessed saint did nothin’ for an 
hour but hould his nose an’ cough. 

u Afther thim two axpayriences, the divil seen it was no use 
o’ him offerin’ fur to conthraven Saint Kevin, so he rayjuiced 
his efforts to botherin’ the monks at the work. He ’d hang 
about day an’ night, doin’ all the mischief that he cud, bekase, 
says he, * If I can’t shtop thim, by Jayminy, I ’ll delay thim to 
that degray that they ’ll find it the shlowest job they ever un- 
dhertuk,’ says he, an’ so it was. When they ’d finish a bit o’ 
the wall an’ lave it to dhry, up ’ud come the divil an’ kick it 
over ; when two o’ them ’ud be carrying a heavy shtone, the 
divil, unbeknownst to thim, ’ud knock it out o’ their hands so 


satan’s cloven hoof. 


63 


as to make it clhrop on their toes, a-thinkin’ belike, that they ’d 
shwear on the quiet to thimselves : that they never did ; when 
a holy father ’ud lay down his hammer an’ turn his back, the 
divil ’ud snatch it up an’ fling it aff the wall ; till wid his 
knockin’ over the wather-bucket, an’ shcrapin’ aff the mor- 
thar, an’ upsettin’ the hod o’ bricks, an’ makin’ the monks 
forgit where they ’d put things, it got so that they were in a 
muck o’ shweat every hour o’ the day ; an’ from that time it 
got to be said, when anything wint wrong widout a raizon, 
that the divil ’s in it. 

“ Now whin Saint Kevin conshecrated the church, they 
tuk wid it the ground round about as far as ye see that shtone 
wall, for, says he, ‘ Sure it ’ll always be handy.’ , So in coorse 
o’ time, as the second church was gettin’ done, wan avenin’ 
Saint Kevin went out wid a bucket fur to milk his cow, that 
had just come down from the mountain where she ’d been 
grazin’. Well, he let the calf to her, an’ the poor little baste 
bein’ hungry, fur I belave the cow had n’t come up the night 
afore, it begun on wan side an’ the saint an the other, an’ the 
calf was suckin’ away wid all the jaws it had, an’ kep’ up a 
haythenish punchin’ wid its nose beways av a hint to the cow 
fur to give up more milk. The calf punched an’ the cow 
kicked, fur, mind ye, the divil was in thim both, the poor 
bastes, no more was it their fault at all, an’ betune howldin’ 
the bucket in wan hand an’ milking wid the other wan, an’ 
kapin’ his eye shkinned for the cow’s heels, an’ shovin’ the 
calf from his side, the saint was like to lose all the milk. 

“ 6 Tatther an’ agers,’ says he, 6 shtand shtill, ye onnatthe- 
ral crayther, or I ’ll bate the life out o’ ye, so I will,’ says he, 
tarin’ mad, fur the calf was gettin’ all, an’ the bottom o’ the 
bucket not covered. But the cow wud n’t do it, so the blessed 
saint tuk the calf be the years fur to drag him away, an’ then 


64 


IRISH WONDERS. 


the cow run at him wid her horns so that he had to let go the 
calf’s years an’ dodge an’ was in a bother entirely. But he 
got him a club in case the cow ’ud offer fur to hook him agin, 
an’ opened the gate into the field behind the church, an’ afther 
a good dale o’ jumpin’ about he sucsayded in dhrivin’ in the 
cow an’ kapin’ out the calf. Then he shut the gate an’ wipin’ 
the shweat aff his blessed face, he got the bucket an’ shtool 
an’ set down to milk in pace. But be this time the cow was 
tarin’ mad at bein’ shut from the calf, an’ at the first shquaze 
he gev her, she jumped like she ’d heard a banshee, an’ then 
pliat ’ud she do but lift up her heel an’ give him a kick an 
the skull fit to crack it fur him an’ laid him on the grass, an’ 
turnin’ round, she put her fut in the bucket an’ stud lookin’ 
at him, as fur to ax if he ’d enough. 

“ c The divil brile the cow,’ says the saint, God forgive him 
fur cursin’ her, but ye see he ’d lost all consate av her be the 
throuble he’d had wid her afore, besides the crack on his 
head, that was well nigh aiquel to the kick he cud give him- 
self, so that he was axcusable fur phat he was say in’, fur it ’s 
no joke I ’m tellin’ ye to be made a showbogher av, be a baste 
av a cow. 

“ ‘ Sure I will, yer Riverince,’ says a deep voice behind him, 
‘ an’ thank ye fur that same favor, fur it ’s a fat bit she is.’ 

“ Saint Kevin riz up a-rubbin’ his head as fast as he cud 
an’ looked round an’ there sure enough was owdd Satan him- 
self standin’ there grinnin’ away wid the horrid mouth av him 
stratched from year to year, a-laughin’ at the fix the saint was 
in. Well, the minnit Saint Kevin set his two eyes an him, 
he knewn he had him, fur ye see, the ground was conshe- 
crated, but the divil did n’t know it fur it was done wan time 
when he ’d gone to Cork to attind a landlord’s convintion to 
raise the rints on a lot o’ shtarving tinants, that bein’ a favor- 


satan’s cloven hoof. 


65 


ite job wid him. If he ’d knewn the ground was holy, he ’d 
never dared to set fut an it, fur ye see, if ye can ketch the 
divil an holy ground where he ’s no bizness, ye ’ve got him 
fast an’ tight an’ can pull him in when ye plaze. But the 
saint was n’t goin’ to give the owld desaver any show so he 
run at him an’ gripped him be the horns, the same as he was 
a goat, an’ threw him an the ground an’ tied his hands wid a 
pace av his own gown that he tore aff, an’ the divil, do phat he 
cud, was n’t able to break loose. 

66 6 Now,’ says he, ‘ ye slatherin’, blood-suckin’, blaggardin’ 
nagur, I ’ll fix ye, ye owld hippypotaymus, so as ivery sowl in 
Ireland ’ull know ye where ever ye ’re met.’ 

“ So he rowled up his shlaves an’ shpit an his hands an’ 
fell to work. He onschrewed the divil’s left leg at the jint 
av the knee, an’ laid it an the grass. Then he tuk aff the 
cow’s right hind leg at the knee an’ laid that an the grass. 
Then he schrewed the owld cow’s leg an the divil’s knee, an’ 
the divil’s fut an the owld cow’s leg, an’ untied Satan an’ bid 
him git up. 

“ ‘ Now,’ says he to him, ‘ do you go at wanst, an’ I bid ye 
that when ye meet man or mortial, the foorst thing ye do is 
to show that fut that they know from the shtart who ye are. 
Now shtart, ye vagabone blaggard av a shpalpeen, or I ’ll 
kick the backbone shtrait up into the shkull o’ ye. Out ! ’ 
he says, flourishiri’ his fut at him. 

“ Well, the divil made a break fur to run, bekase he wanted 
no more benedictions from the toes o’ Saint Kevin, but not 
bein’ used to his new leg, the very foorst shtep he made wid 
it, it kicked out behind agin this shtone, that was n’t a crass 
at all then, an’ made this hole that ye see, an’ Saint Kevin 
tuk the shtone an’ made a crass av it aftherwards. But the 
divil did n’t shtop at all when the leg wud n’t go fur him, fur 


66 


IRISH WONDERS. 


he seen the blessed saint coinin’, a-wavin’ his fut about, so 
he rowled over an’ over till he got to the wall, then made 
a shpring an it an’ out av sight like a ghost. 

. “ That ’s the way Satan got his lame leg, bekase, ye see, 
he ’s niver larned fur to manage it, an’ goes limpity-lop, an’ 
though he wears a cloak, is obligated fur to show the cow’s 
fut whenever he talks wid any wan, fur if he does n’t, begorra, 
the leg does fur itself, fur it ’s niver forgot the thrick av kick- 
ing the owld cow larned it, an’ if Satan 
waits a minnit, up goes the cow’s fut, 
as hard an’ high as the last time she 
kicked the saint. No more did the 
divil ever dare to come there agin, so 
the blessed Saint Kevin was left in 
pace to build the siven churches, an 
the divil was n’t ever seen in Glen- 
dalough, till the day the saint was ber- 
rid, an’ then he peeped over the hill 
to look at the berryin’, but he wud 
n’t come down, thinkin’, belike, it was 
a lie they were tellin’ him when they 
said the saint was dead, fur to in juice 
him to come into the glen an’ give 
Saint Kevin wan more whack at him 
wid his fut. An’ they do say, that 
he ’s been to the besht docthers in the 
univaarse fur to get him another leg, 
but they cud n’t do it, Glory be to God ; an’ so he is lame an’ 
must show his cloven fut, so as ivery wan knows at wanst that 
it ’s the divil himself that ’s in it, an’ can run away from him 
before he ’s time to do thim harm. 



THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 


N the afternoon of Sunday, 
July 7, 1878, the inhabitants 
of Ballycotton, County Cork, 
were greatly excited by the 
sudden appearance, far out 
at sea, of an island where 
none was known to exist. 
The men of the town and 
island of Ballycotton were 
fishermen and knew the sea 
as well as they knew the land. The 
day before, they had been out in their 
boats and sailed over the spot where the strange island now 
appeared, and were certain that the locality was the best fish- 
ing-ground they had. 

“ And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,” for the 
day^ was clear and the island could be seen as plainly as they 
saw the hills to the north. It was rugged, in some parts rocky, 
in others densely wooded ; here and there were deep shadows 
in its sides indicating glens heavily covered with undergrowth 
and grasses. At one end it rose almost precipitously from the 
sea ; at the other, the declivity was gradual ; the thick forest 
of the mountainous portion gave way to smaller trees, these to 
shrubs ; these to green meadows that finally melted into the 
sea and became indistinguishable from the waves. 




68 


IRISH WONDERS. 


Under sail and oar, a hundred boats put off from the shore 
to investigate; when, as they neared the spot, the strange 
island became dim in outline, less vivid in color, and at last 
vanished entirely, leaving the wonder-stricken villagers to re- 
turn, fully convinced that for the first time in their lives they 
had really seen the Enchanted Island. For once there was a 
topic of conversation that would outlast the day, and as the 
story of the Enchanted Island passed from lip to lip, both story 
and island grew in size till the latter was little less than a con- 
tinent, containing cities and castles, palaces and cathedrals, 
towers and steeples, stupendous mountain ranges, fertile val- 
leys, and wide spreading plains ; while the former was limited 
only by the patience of the listener, and embraced the personal 
experience, conclusions, reflections, and observations of every 
man, woman, and child in the parish who had been fortunate 
enough to see the island, hear of it, or tell where it had been 
seen elsewhere. 

For the Enchanted Island of the west coast is not one of 
those ordinary, humdrum islands that rise out of the sea in a 
night, and then, having come, settle down to business on sci- 
entific principles, and devote their attention to the collection 
of soil for the use of plants and animals. It disdains any 
such commonplace course as other islands are content to fol- 
low, but is peripatetic, or, more properly, seafaring, in its 
habits, and as fond of travelling as a sailor. At its own sweet 
will it comes, and, having shown itself long enough to con- 
vince everybody who is not an “ innocent entirely” of its 
reality, it goes without leave-taking or ceremony, and always 
before boats can approach near enough to make a careful in- 
spection. This is the invariable history of its appearance. 
No one has ever been able to come close to its shores, much 
less land upon them, but it has been so often seen on the west 


THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 


69 


coast, that a doubt of its existence, if expressed in the com- 
pany of coast fishermen, will at once establish for the sceptic 
a reputation for ignorance of the common affairs of every-day 
life. 

In Cork, for instance, it has been seen by hundreds of peo- 
ple off Ballydonegan Bay, while many more can testify to its 
appearance off the Bay of Courtmacsherry. In Kerry, all the 
population of Ballyheige saw it a few years ago, lying in Tra- 
lee Bay, between Kerry Head and Brandon’s Head, and 
shortly before, the villagers of Lisneakeabree, just across the 
bay from Ballyheige, saw it between their shore and Kerry 
Head, while the fishermen in Saint Finan’s Bay and in Ballin- 
skelligs are confident it has been seen, if not by themselves, 
at least by some of their friends. It has appeared at the 
mouth of the Shannon, and off Carrigaholt in Clare, where 
the people saw a city on it. This is not so remarkable as it 
seems, for, in justice to the Enchanted Island, it should be 
stated that its resemblance to portions of the neighboring land 
is sometimes very close, and shows that the u enchanter ” who 
has it under a spell knows his business, and being determined 
to keep his island for himself changes its appearance as well 
as its location in order that his property may not be recog- 
nized nor appropriated. 

In Galway, the Enchanted Island has appeared in the mouth 
of Ballinaleame Bay, a local landlord at the time making a de- 
vout wish that it would stay there. The fishermen of Bally- 
naskill, in the Joyce Country, saw it about fifteen years ago, 
since when it appeared to the Innisshark islanders. The 
County Mayo has seen it, not only from the Achille Island 
cliffs, but also from Downpatrick Head ; and in Sligo, the 
fishermen of Ballysadare Bay know all about it, while half the 
population of Inishcrone still remember its appearance about 


70 


IRISH WONDERS. 


twenty years ago. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal say 
it looked like their own island, “ sure two twins could n’t be 
liker,” and the people on Gweebarra Bay, when it appeared 
there, observed along the shore of the island a village like 
Maas, the one in which they lived. It has also appeared olf 
Rathlin’s Island, on the Antrim coast, but, so far as could be 
learned, it went no further to the east, confining its migra- 
tions to the west coast, between Cork on the south and Antrim 
on the north. 

Concerning the island itself, legendary authorities differ on 
many material points. Some hold it to be “ a rale island sure 
enough,” and that its exploits are due to “ jommethry or some 
other inchantmint,” while opponents of this materialistic view 
are inclined to the opinion that the island is not what it seems 
to be, that is to say, not “ airth an’ shtones, like as thim we 
see, but only a deludherin’ show that avil sper’ts, or the divil 
belike, makes fur to desave us poor dishsolute craythers.” 
Public opinion on the west coast is therefore strongly divided 
on the subject, unity of sentiment existing on two points 
only ; that the island has been seen, and that there is some- 
thing quite out of the ordinary in its appearance. “ For ye 
see, yer Anner,” observed a Kerry fisherman, “ it ’s agin 
nacher fur a rale island to be cornin’ and goin’ like a light in 
a bog, an’ whin ye do see it, ye can see through it, an’ by 
jagers, if it ’s a tlirue island, a mighty quare wan it is an’ no 
mishtake.” 

On so deep and difficult a subject, an ounce of knowledge 
is worth a pound of speculation, and the knowledge desired 
was finally furnished by an old fisherman of Ballyconealy Bay, 
on the Connemara coast, west of Galway. This individual, 
Dennis Moriarty by name, knew all about the Enchanted Isl- 
and, having not only seen it himself, but, when a boy, learned 


THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 


71 


its history from a “ fairy man,” who obtained his information 
from “ the good people ” themselves, the facts stated being 
therefore, of course, of indisputable authority, what the fairies 
did not know concerning the doings of supernatural and en- 
chanted circles, being not worth knowing. Mr. Moriarty was 
stricken in years, having long given up active service in the 
boats and relegated himself to lighter duties on shore. He 
had much confidence in the accuracy of his information on the 
subject of the island, and a glass of grog, and “ dhraw ov the 
pipe,” brought out the story in a rich, mellow brogue. 

“ Faith, I ’m not rightly sure how long ago it was, but it 
was a good while an’ before the blessed Saint Pathrick come 
to the counthry an’ made Crissans av the haythens in it. 
Howandiver, it was in thim times that betune this an’ Inish- 
more, there was an island. Some calls it the Island av Shades, 
an’ more says its name was the Sowls Raypose, but it does n’t 
matther, fur no wan knows. It was as full av payple as it 
could howld, an’ cities wor on it wid palaces an’ coorts an’ 
hay then timples an’ round towers all covered wid goold an’ 
silver till they shone so ye cud n’t see for the brightness. 

“ And they wor all haythens there, an’ the king av the 
island was the biggest av thim, sure he was Satan’s own, 
an’ tuk delight in doin’ all the bloody things that come into 
his head. If the waither that minded the table did anny- 
thing to displaze him, he ’d out wid a soord the length av me 
arrum an’ cut aff his head. If they caught a man shtaling, 
the king ’ud have him hung at wanst widout the taste av a 
thrial, 6 Bekase,’ says the king, says he, ‘ maybe he did n’t do 
it at all, an’ so he ’d get aff, so up wid him,’ an’ so they ’d do. 
He had more than a hunderd wives, ginerally spakin’, but he 
was n’t throubled in the laste be their clack, for whin wan had 
too much blasthogue in her jaw, or begun gostherin’ at him, 


72 


IRISH WONDERS. 


he cut aff her head an’ said, beways av a joke, that 6 that’s 
the only cure fur a woman’s tongue.’ An’ all the time, from 
sun to sun, he was cursin’ an’ howlin’ wid rage, so as I ’m sure 
yer Anner would n’t want fur to hear me say thim blastphee- 
mies that he said. To spake the truth av him, he was wicked 
in that degray that, axin’ yer pardon, the owld divil himself 
would n’t own him. 

“ So wan time, there was a thunderin’ phillaloo in the 
king’s family, fur mind ye, he had thin just a hunderd wives. 
Now it ’s my consate that it ’s aisier fur a hunderd cats to 
spind the night in pace an the wan thatch than for two wim- 
min to dhraw wather out av the same well widout aitch wan 
callin’ the other wan all the names she can get out av her head. 
But whin ye ’ve a hunderd av ’em, an’ more than a towsand 
young wans, big an’ little, its aisey to see that the king av the 
island had plinty av use fur the big soord that he always kept 
handy to settle family dishputes wid. So, be the time the 
row I ’m tellin’ ye av was over an’ the wimmin shtopped 
talkin’, the king was a widdy-man just ten times, an’ had only 
ninety wives lift. 

“ So he says to himself, ‘ Bedad, I must raycrout the force 
agin, or thim that ’s left ’ull think I cant do widout ’em an’ 
thin there ’ll be no ind to their impidince. Begorra, this mar- 
ryin’ is a sayrious business,’ says he, sighin’, fur he ’d got 
about all the wimmin that wanted to be quanes an’ did n’t 
just know where to find anny more. But, be pickin’ up wan 
here an’ there, afther a bit he got ninety-nine, an’ then cud 
get no more, an’ in spite av sendin’ men to ivery quarther av 
Ireland an’ tellin’ the kings’ dawthers iverywhere how lone- 
some he was, an’ how the coort was goin’ to rack an’ ruin en- 
tirely fur the want av another quane to mind the panthry, 
sorra a woman cud be had in all Ireland to come, fur they ’d 


THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 73 

all heard av the nate manes he tuk to kape pace in his 
family. 

“ But afther thryin’ i very where else, he sent a man into the 
Joyce Counthry, to a mighty fine princess av the Joyces. She 
did n’t want to go at first, but the injuicemints war so shtrong 
that she could n’t howld out, for the king sint her presints wid- 
out end an’ said, if she ’d marry him, he ’d give her all the 
dimunds they cud get on a donkey’s back. 

66 Now over beyant the Twelve Pins, in the Joyce Counthry, 
there was a great inchanter, that had all kinds av saycrets, an’ 
knew where ye ’d dig for a pot av goold, an’ all about doctlier- 
in’, and cud turn ye into a pig in a minnit, an’ build a cassel in 
wan night, an’ make himself disappare when ye wanted him, 
an’ take anny shape he plazed, so as to look to be a baste 
whin he was n’t, an’ was a mighty dape man entirely. Now to 
him wint the princess an’ axed him phat to do, for she did n’t 
care a traneen for the king, but ’ud give the two eyes out av 
her head to get the dimunds. The inchanter heard phat she 
had to say an’ then towld her, ‘ Now, my dear, you marry the 
owld felly, an’ have no fear, fur av he daars to touch a hair 
av yer goolden locks, I ’ll take care av you an’ av him too.’ 

“ So he gev her a charm that she was to say whin she 
wanted him to come an’ another wan to repate whin she was 
in mortial danger an’ towld her fur to go an’ get marr’ed an’ 
get the dimunds as quick as she cud. An’ that she did, an’ 
at foorst the king was mightily plazed at gettin’ her, bekase 
she was hard to get, an’ give her the dimunds an all she 
wanted, so she got on very well an’ tuk care av the panthry 
an’ helped the other wives about the coort. 

“ Wan day the king got up out av the goolden bed he 
shlept an, wid a terrible sulk an him, an’ in a state av mind 
entirely, for the wind was in the aiste an’ he had the roomy- 


74 


IRISH WONDERS. 


tisms in his back. So he cursed an’ shwore like a Turk an* 
whin the waither axed him to come to his brekquest, he kicked 
him into the yard av the coort, an’ wint in widout him an’ set 
down be the table. So wan av the quanes brought him his 
bowl av stirabout an’ thin he found fault wid it. 6 It ’s 
burned/ say he, an’ threw it at her. Then Quane Peggy 



Joyce, that had n’t seen the timper that was an him, come in 
from the panthry wid a shmile an her face an’ a big noggin o’ 
milk in her hand. ‘ Good morrow to ye,’ she says to him, 
but the owld vagabone did n’t spake a word. ‘ Good mor- 
row,’ she says to him agin, an’ thin he broke out wid a fury. 

“ ‘ Ho wid yer pace, ye palaverin’ shtrap. D’ ye think I ’m 
to be deefened wid yer tongue ? Set the noggin an the table 


THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 


75 


an be walkin’ aff wid yerself or I ’ll make ye sorry ye come,’ 
says he. 

“ It was the first time he iver spake like that to her, an’ the 
Irish blood ov her riz, an’ in a minnit she was as mad as a gan- 
dher and as bowld as a lion. 

“ ‘ Don’t you daar to spake that-a-way to me, Sorr,’ she says 
to him. ‘ I ’ll have ye know I won’t take a word av yer im- 
pidince. Me fathers wore crowns ages afore yer bogthrottin’ 
grandfather come to this island, an’ ivery wan knows he was 
the first av his dirthy tliribe that had shoes an his feet.’ An’ 
she walked strait up to him an’ folded her arrums an’ looked 
into his face as impidint as a magpie. ‘ Don’t think fur to 
bully me,’ she says. ‘ I come av a raee that niver owned a 
coward, and I would n’t give that fur you an’ all the big soords 
ye cud carry,’ says she, givin’ her fingers a snap right at the 
end av his nose. 

“ Now the owld hay then niver had anny wan to spake like 
that to him, an’ at first was that surprised like as a horse had 
begun fur to convarse at him, no more cud he say a word, he 
was that full o’ rage, and sat there, openin’ and shuttin’ his 
mouth an’ swellin’ up like he ’d burst, an’ his face as red as a 
turkey-cock’s. Thin he remimbered his soord an’ pulled it 
out an’ stratched out his hand fur to ketch the quane an’ cut 
aff her head. But she was too quick for him entirely, an’ 
whin he had the soord raised, she said the charm that was to 
purtect her, an’ afore ye cud wink, there stood the blood-suck- 
in’ owld villin, mortified to shtone wid his arrum raised an’ 
his hand reached out, an’ as stiff as a mast. 

“ Thin she said the other charm that called the inchanter 
an’ he come at wanst. She towld him phat she done an’ he 
said it was right av her, an’ as she was a purty smart woman 
he said he ’d marry her himself. So he did, an’ bein’ that the 


76 


IRISH WONDERS. 


island was cursed be rayzon av the king’s crimes, they come to 
Ireland wid all the payple. So they come to Connemara, an’ 
the inchanter got husbands fur all the king’s wives an’ homes 
fur all the men av the island. But he inchanted the island 
an’ made it so that the bad king must live in it alone as long 
as the sun rises an’ sits. No more does the island stand still, 
but must go thravellin’ up an’ down the coast, an’ wan siven 
years they see it in Kerry an’ the next siven years in Donegal, 
an’ so it goes, an’ always will, beways av a caution to kings 
not to cut aff the heads av their wives.” 



HOW THE LAKES WERE MADE. 


MONG the weird legends 
of the Irish peasantry is 
found a class of stories 
peculiar both in the na- 
ture of the subject and 
in the character of the 
tradition. From the dawn 
of history, and even be- 
fore, the island has been 
crowded with inhabitants, 
and as the centres of pop- 
ulation changed, towns 
and cities were deserted and fell into ruins. Although no 
longer inhabited, their sites are by no means unknown or for- 
gotten, but in many localities where now appear only irregular 
heaps of earth and stones to which the archaeologist some- 
times finds difficulty in attributing an artificial origin there 
linger among the common people tales of the city that once * 
stood on the spot ; of its walls, its castles, its palaces, its tem- 
ples, and the pompous worship of the deities there adored. 
Just as, in Palestine, the identification of Bible localities has, 
in many instances, been made complete by the preservation 
among the Bedouins of the Scriptural names, so, in Ireland, 
the cities of pagan times are now being located through the 
traditions of the humble tillers of the soil, who transmit from 
father to son the place-names handed down for untold gener- 
ations. 



78 


IRISH WONDERS. 


Instances are so abundant as to defy enumeration, but a 
most notable one is Tara, the greatest as it was the holiest 
city of pagan Ireland. Now it is a group of irregular mounds 
that the casual observer would readily mistake for natural 
hills, but for ages the name clung to the place until at last the 
attention of antiquaries was attracted, interest w T as roused, in- 
vestigation made, excavation begun, and the site of Tara made 
a certainty. 

Not all ancient Irish cities, however, escaped the hand of 
time as well as Tara, for there are geological indications of 
great natural convulsions in the island at a date comparatively 
recent, and not a few of the Irish lakes, wdiose name is le- 
gion, were formed by depression or upheaval, almost within 
the period of written history. A fertile valley traversed by a 
stream, a populous city by the little river, an earthquake-up- 
heaval lower down the watercourse, closing the exit from the 
valley, a rising and spreading of the water, an exodus of the 
inhabitants, such has undoubtedly been the history of Lough 
Derg and Lough Ree, which are but reservoirs in the course 
of the River Shannon, while the upper and lower Erne lakes 
are likewise simply expansions of the river Erne. Lough Neag 
had a similar origin, the same being also true of Loughs Al- 
len and Key. The Killarney Lakes give indisputable evidence 
of the manner in which they were formed, being enlargements 
of the Laune, and Loughs Carra and Mask, in Mayo, are be- 
lieved to have a subterranean outlet to Lough Carrib, the 
neighborhood of all three testifying in the strongest possible 
manner to the sudden closing of the natural outlet for the 
contributing streams. 

The towns which at one time stood on ground now covered 
by the waters of these lakes were not forgotten. The story 
of their fate was told by one generation to another, but in 


HOW THE LAKES WERE MADE. 


79 


course of ages the natural cause, well known to the unfortu- 
nates at the time of the calamity, was lost to view, and the 
story of the disaster began to assume supernatural features. 
The destruction of the city became sudden ; the inhabitants 
perished in their dwellings ; and, as a motive for so signal an 
event was necessary, it was found in the punishment of duty 
neglected or crime committed. 

Lough Allen is a small body of water in the County Lei- 
trim, and on its shores, partly covered by the waves, are sev- 
eral evidences of human habitation, indications that the waters 
at present are much higher than formerly. Among the peas- 
ants in the neighborhood there is a legend that the little val- 
ley once contained a village. In the public square there was 
a fountain guarded by spirits, fairies, elves, and leprechawns, 
who objected to the building of the town in that locality, but 
upon an agreement between themselves and the first settlers 
permitted the erection of the houses on condition that the 
fountain be covered with an elegant stone structure, the basin 
into which the water flowed from the spring to be protected 
by a cover never to be left open, under pain of the town’s de- 
struction, 66 the good people being that nate an clane that 
they did n’t want the laste speck av dust in the wather they 
drunk. So a decree was issued, by the head man of the town, 
that the cover be always closed by those resorting to the 
fountain for water, and that due heed might be taken, chil- 
dren, boys under age, and unmarried women, were forbidden 
under any circumstances to raise the lid of the basin. 

For many years things went on well, the fairies and the 
townspeople sharing alike the benefits of the fountain, till, on 
one unlucky day, preparations for a wedding were going on 
in a house close by, and the mother of the bride stood in ur- 
gent need of a bucket of water. Not being able to bring it 


80 


IRISH WONDERS. 


herself, the alleged reason being “ she was scholdin’ the house 
in ordher,” she commanded her daughter, the bride expectant, 
to go in her stead. 

The latter objected, urging the edict of the head man al- 
ready mentioned, but was overcome, partly by her mother’s 
argument, that u the good people know ye ’re the same as 
married now that the banns are cried,” but principally by the 
more potent consideration, “ Av ye hav n’t that wather here in 
a wink, I ’ll not lave a whole bone in yer body, ye lazy young 
shtrap, an’ me breaking me back wid the work,” she took 
the bucket and proceeded to the fountain with the determina- 
tion to get the water and “ shlip out agin afore the good peo- 
ple ’ud find her out.” Had she adhered to this resolution, 
all would have been well, as the fairies would have doubtless 
overlooked this infraction of the city ordinance. But as she 
was filling the pail, her lover came in. Of course the two at 
once began to talk of the all-important subject, and having 
never before taken water from the fountain, she turned away, 
forgetting to close the cover of the well. In an instant, a 
stream, resistless in force, burst forth, and though all the mar- 
ried women of the town ran to put down the cover, their ef- 
forts were in vain, the flood grew mightier, the village was 
submerged, and, with* two exceptions, all the inhabitants were 
drowned. The girl and her lover violated poetic justice by 
escaping ; for, seeing the mischief they had done, they were 
the first to run away, witnessed the destruction of the town 
from a neighboring hill, and were afterwards married, the 
narrator of this incident coming to the sensible conclusion 
that “ it was too bad entirely that the wans that got away 
were the wans that, be rights, ought to be droonded first.” 

Upper Lough Erne has a legend, in all important particu- 
lars identical with that of Lough Allen, the catastrophe being, 


HOW THE LAKES WERE MADE. 


81 


however, in the former case brought about by the carelessness 
of a woman who left her baby at home when she went after 
water and hearing it scream, “ as aven the best babies do be 
doin’, God bless ’em, for no betther rayson than to lishen at 
thimselves,” she hurried back, forgetting to cover the well, 
with a consequent calamity like that which followed similar 
forgetfulness at Lough Allen. 

In the County Mayo is found Lough Conn, once, according 
to local story-tellers, the site of a village built within and 
around the enclosure of a castle. The lord of the castle, 
being fond of fish, determined to make a fish-pond, and as 
the spot selected for the excavation was covered by the cabins 
of his poorest tenants, he ordered all the occupants to be 
turned out forthwith, an order at once carried out “ wid pro- 
cess-sarvers, an’ bailiffs, an’ consthables, an’ sogers, an’ polis, 
an’ the people all shtandin’ ’round.” One of the evicted 
knelt on the ground and cursed the chief with “ all the seed, 
breed and gineration av ’im,” and prayed “ that the throut- 
pond ’ud be the death av ’im.” The prayer was speedily an- 
swered, for no sooner was the water turned into the newly- 
made pond, than an overflow resulted ; the valley was filled ; 
the waves climbed the walls of the castle, nor ceased to rise till 
they had swept the chief from the highest tower, where “ he 
was down an his hard-hearted knees, sayin’ his baids as fast 
as he cud, an’ bawlin’ at all the saints aither to bring him a 
boat or taiche him how to swim quick.” Regard for the un- 
fortunate tenants, however, prevented any interference by the 
saints thus vigorously and practically supplicated, so the chief 
was drowned and went, as the story-teller concluded, to a lo- 
cality where he u naded more wather than he ’d left behind 
him, an’ had the comp’ny av a shwarm av other landlords 
that turned out the poor to shtarve.” 


82 


IRISH WONDERS. 


Lough Gara, in Sligo, flows over a once thriving little town, 
the City of Peace, destroyed by an overflow on account of the 
lack of charity for strangers. A poor widow entered it one 
night leading a child on each side and carrying a baby at her 
breast. She asked alms and shelter, but in vain ; from door 
to door she went, but the customary Irish hospitality, so abun- 
dant alike to the deserving and to the unworthy, was lacking. 
At the end of the village “ she begun to scraich, yer Anner, 



wid that shtrength you ’d think she ’d shplit her troat.” At 
this provocation, all the inhabitants at once ran to ascertain 
the reason of so unusual a noise, upon which, when they were 
gathered ’round her, the woman pronounced the curse of the 
widow and orphan on the people and their town. They laughed 
at her and returned home, but that night, the brook running 
through the village became a torrent, the outlet was closed, 
the waters rose, and “ ivery wan o’ them oncharitable blag- 



HOW THE LAKES WERE MADE. 


83 


gards wor drownded, while they wor aslape. Bad cess to 
the lie that ’s in it, for, sure, there ’s the lake to this blessed 
day.” 

In County Antrim there lies Lough Neag, one of the largest 
and most beautiful bodies of water on the island. The waters 
of the lake are transparently blue, and even small pebbles on 
the bottom can be seen at a considerable depth. Near the 
southern end, a survey of the bottom discloses hewn stones 
laid in order, and careful observations have traced the regular 
walls of a structure of considerable dimensions. Tradition 
says it was a castle, surrounded by the usual village, and ac- 
counts for its destruction by the lake on this wise. In ancient 
times, the castle was owned by an Irish chief named Shane 
O’Dbnovan, noted for his bad traits of character, being merci- 
less in war, tyrannical in peace, feared by his neighbors, hated 
by his dependents, and detested by everybody for his inhospi- 
tality and want of charity. His castle then stood by the bank 
of the lake, on an elevated promontory, almost an island, 
being joined to the mainland by a narrow isthmus, very little 
above the water level. 

By chance there came into that part of Ireland an angel 
who had been sent from heaven to observe the people and 
note their piety. In the garb and likeness of a man, weary 
and footsore with travel, the angel spied the castle from the 
hills above the lake, came down, and boldly applied for a 
night’s lodging. Not only was his request refused, “ but the 
oncivil Shane O’Donovan set an his dogs fur to bite him.” 
The angel turned away, but no sooner had he left the castle 
gate than the villagers ran ’round him and a contest ensued 
as to which of them should entertain the traveller. He made 
his choice, going to the house of a cobbler who was “ that 
poor that he ’d but the wan pitatee, and when he wanted 


84 


IRISH WONDERS. 


another he broke wan in two.” The heavenly visitor shared 
the cobbler’s potato and slept on the cobbler’s floor, u puttin’ 
his feet into the fire to kape thim warrum,” but at daylight 
he rose, and calling the inhabitants of the village, led them 
out, across the isthmus to a hill near by, and bid them look 
back. They did so, beholding the castle and promontory 
separated from the mainland and beginning to subside into 
the lake. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the castle sank, while 
the waters rose around, but stood like a wall on every side of 
the castle, not wetting a stone from turret to foundation. At 
length the wall of water was higher than the battlements, the 
angel waved his hand, the waves rushed over the castle and 
its sleeping inmates, and the O’Donovan inhospitality was 
punished. The angel pointed to a spot near by, told th£ vil- 
lagers to build and prosper there ; then, as the awe-stricken 
peasants kneeled before him, his clothing became white and 
shining, wings appeared on his shoulders, he rose into the 
air and vanished from their sight. 

Of somewhat different origin is the pretty Lough Derryclare, 
in Connemara, south of the Joyce Country. The ferocious 
O’ Flaherty’s frequented this region in past ages, and, with 
the exception of Oliver Cromwell, no historical name is better 
known in the west of Ireland than O’ Flaherty. One of this 
doughty race was, it seems, a model of wickedness. “ He was 
as proud as a horse wid a wooden leg, an’ so bad, that, savin’ 
yer presince, the divil himself was ashamed av him.” This 
O’Flaherty had sent a party to devastate a neighboring village, 
but as the men did not return promptly, he started with a 
troop of horse in the direction they had taken. On the way 
he was passing through a deep ravine at the bottom of which 
flowed a tiny brook, when he met his returning troops, and 
questioning them as to the thoroughness with which their 


HOW THE LAKES WERE MADE. 


85 


bloody work had been done, found, to his great wrath, • that 
they had spared the church and those who took refuge in its 
sacred precincts. 

“ May God drownd me where I shtand,” said he, “ if I 
don’t shlay thim all an the althar,” and no doubt he would 
have done so, but the moment the words passed his lips, the 
rivulet became a seething torrent, drowned him and his men, 
and the lake was formed over the spot where they stood when 
the curse was pronounced. “ An’ sometimes, they say, that 
when the lake is quite shtill, ye may hear the groans av the 
lost sowls chained at the bottom.” 

The fairies are responsible for at least two of the Irish 
lakes, Lough Key and the Upper Lough Killarney. The for- 
mer is an enlargement of the River Boyle, a tributary of the 
Shannon, and is situated in Roscommon. At a low stage of 
water, ruins can be discerned at the bottom of the river, and 
are reported to be those of a city whose inhabitants injudi- 
ciously attempted to swindle the “ good people ” in a land bar- 
gain. The city was built, it seems, by permission of the fai- 
ries, the understanding being that all raths were to be left un- 
disturbed. For a long time the agreement was respected, 
fairies and mortals living side by side, and neither class inter- 
fering with the other. But, as the necessity for more arable 
land became evident, it was determined by the townspeople to 
level several raths and mounds that interfered with certain 
fields and boundary lines. The dangers of such a course were 
plainly pointed out by the local “fairy-man,” and all the 
u knowledgable women ” lifted their voices against it, but in 
vain ; down the raths must come and down they came, to the 
consternation of the knowing ones, who predicted no end of 
evil from so flagrant a violation of the treaty with the fairies. 

The night after the demolition of the raths, one of the 


86 


IRISH WONDERS. 


towns-men was coining through the gorge below the city, 
when, u Millia, murther, there wor more than a hundherd 
t’ousand little men in grane jackets bringin’ shtones an’ airth 
an’ buildin’ a wall acrass the glen. Begob, I go bail but he 
was the skairt man when he seen phat they done, an’ run 
home wid all the legs he had an’ got his owld woman an’ the 
childher. When she axed him phat he was afther, he towld 
her to howld her whisht or he ’d pull the tongue out av her 
an’ to come along an’ not spake a word. So they got to the 
top o’ the hill an’ then they seen the wathers swapin’ an the 
city an’ niver a sowl was there left o’ thim that wor in it. So 
the good people had their rayvinge, an’ the like o’ that makes 
men careful wid raths, not to displaze their betthers, for 
there ’s no sayin’ phat they ’ll do.” 

The Upper Killarney lake was created by the fairy queen 
of Kerry to punish her lover, the young Prince O’Donohue. 
She was greatly fascinated by him, and, for a time, he was as 
devoted to her as woman’s heart could wish. But things 
changed, for, in the language of the boatman, who told the 
legend, u whin a woman loves a man, she ’s satisfied wid wan, 
but whin a man loves a woman, belike he ’s not contint wid 
twinty av her, an’ so was it wid O’Donohue.” No doubt, how- 
ever, he loved the fairy queen as long as he could, but in time 
tiring of her, “ he concluded to marry a foine lady, and when 
the quane rayproaclied him wid forgittin’ her, at ‘first he said 
it was n’t so, an’ whin she proved it an him, faith he ’d not a 
word left in his jaw. So afther a dale o’ blasthogue bechuxt 
thim, he got as mad as Paddy Monagan’s dog when they cut 
his tail aff, an’ towld her he wanted no more av her, an’ she 
towld him agin for to go an’ marry his red-headed gurrul, 
c but mark ye,’ says she to him , c ye shall niver resave her into 
yer cassel.’ No more did he, for the night o’ the weddin’, 


HOW THE LAKES WERE MADE. 


87 


while they were all dhrinkin’ till they were ready to burst, in 
comes the waither an’ says, ‘ Here ’s the wather,’ says he. 
£ W ather,’ says O’Donohue, £ we want no wather to-night. 
Dhrink away.’ 6 But the wather ’s risin’,’ says the waither. 
£ Arrah, ye Bladdherang,’ says O’Donohue, ‘ phat d’ ye mane 
be inthrudin’ an agrayble f rinds an such an outspishus occa- 
sion wid yer presince ? Be aff, or be the powdhers o’ war I ’ll 
wather ye,’ says he, risin’ up for to shlay the waither. But 
wan av his gintlemin whuspered the thruth in his year an’ 
towld him to run. So he did an’ got away just in time, for 
the cassel was half full o’ wather whin he left it. But the 
quane did n’t want to kill him, so he got away an’ built 
another cassel an the hill beyant where he lived wid his 
bride.” 

Still another origin for the Irish lakes is found in Mayo, 
where Lough Carra is attributed to a certain “giont,” by 
name unknown, who formerly dwelt in the neighborhood, and, 
with one exception, found everything necessary for comfort 
and convenience. He was a cleanly “ giont,” and desirous 
of performing his ablutions regularly and thoroughly. The 
streams in the neighborhood were ill adapted to his use, for 
when he entered any one of them for bathing purposes “ bad 
scran to the wan that ’ud take him in furder than to the 
knees.” Obviously this was not deep enough, so one day 
when unusually in need of a bath and driven desperate by the 
inadequacy of the means, “ he spit an his han’s an’ went to 
work an’ made Lough Carra. £ Bedad,’ says he, ‘ I ’ll have 
a wash now,’ an’ so he did,” and doubtless enjoyed it, for the 
lake is deep and the water clear and pure. 

Just below Lough Carra is Lough Mask, a large lake be- 
tween Mayo and Galway. Concerning its origin, traditionary 
authorities differ, some maintaining that the lake was the 


88 


IRISH WONDERS. 


work of fairies, others holding that it was scooped out by a 
rival of the cleanly gigantic party already mentioned, a theory 
apparently confirmed by the fact that it has no visible outlet, 
though several streams pour into it, its waters, it is believed, 
escaping by a subterranean channel to Lough Corrib, thence 
to the sea. Sundry unbelievers, however, stoutly assert a con- 
viction that “ it ’s so be nacher entirely an’ thirn that says it ’s 
not is ignerant gommochs that don’t know,” and in the face 
of determined scepticism the question of the origin of the lake 
must remain unsettled. 

Thus far, indeed, it is painful to be compelled to state that 
scarcely one of the narratives of this chapter passes undis- 
puted among the veracious tradition-mongers of Ireland. Like 
most other countries in this practical, poetry-decrying age, 
the Emerald Isle has scientists and sceptics, and among the 
peasants are found many men who have no hesitation in pro- 
claiming their disbelief in “ thim owld shtories,” and who 
even openly affirm that “ laigends about fairies an’ giants is 
all lies complately.” In the face of this growing tendency 
towards materialism and the disposition to find in natural 
causes an explanation of wonderful events, it is pleasant to be 
able to conclude this chapter with an undisputed account of 
the origin of Lough Ree in the River Shannon, the accuracy 
of the information being in every particular guaranteed by a 
boatman on the Shannon, “ a respectable man,” who solemnly 
asseverated “ Sure, that ’s no laigend, but the blessed truth as 
I ’m livin’ this minnit, for I ’d sooner cut out me tongue be 
the root than desave yer Anner, when every wan knows 
there ’s not a taste av a lie in it at all.” 

“ When the blessed Saint Pathrick was goin’ through Ire- 
land from wan end to the other buildin’ churches, an’ Father 
Malone says he built three liundherd an’ sixty foive, that ’s a 


HOW THE LAKES WERE MADE. 


89 


good manny, he come to Roscommon be the way av Athlone, 
where ye saw the big barracks an’ the sojers. So he passed 
through Athlone, the counthry bein’ full o’ haythens entirely 
an’ not av Crissans, and went up the Shannon, kapin’ the river 
on his right hand, an’ come to a big peat bog, that ’s where 
the lake is now. There were more than a thousand poor oma- 
dhawns av haythens a-diggin’ the peat, an’ the blessed saint 
convarted thim at wanst afore he ’d shtir a toe to go anny 
furder. Then he built thim a church an the hill be the bog, 
an’ gev thim a holy man fur a priest be the name o’ Caruck, 
that I b’lave is a saint too or lasteways ought to be fur phat 
he done. So Saint Pathrick left thim wid the priest, givin’ 
him great power on the divil an’ avil sper’ts, and towld him 
to build a priest’s house as soon as he cud. So the blessed 
Caruck begged an’ begged as long as he got anny money, an’ 
whin he ’d the last ha’penny he cud shtart, he begun the 
priest’s house fur to kape monks in. 

“ But the divil was watchin’ him ivery minnit, fur it made 
the owld felly tarin’ mad to see himself bate out o’ the face 
that-a-way in the counthry where he ’d been masther so long, 
an’ he detarmined he ’d spile the job. So wan night, he goes 
to the bottom o’ the bog, an’ begins dammin’ the shtrame, 
from wan side to the other, layin’ the shtones shtrong an’ 
tight, an’ the wather begins a risin’ an the bog. Now it hap- 
pened that the blessed Caruck was n’t aslape as Satan thought, 
but up an’ about, for he misthrusted that the Owld Wan was 
dodgin’ round like a wayzel, an’ was an the watch fur him. 
So when the blessed man saw the wather risin’ on the bog an’ 
not a taste o’ rain failin’, ‘ Phat ’s this ? ’ says he. ‘ Sure it ’s 
some o’ Satan’s deludherin’.’ 

u So down he goes bechuxt the hills an’ kapin’ from the 
river, an’ comes up below where the divil was workin’ away 


90 


IRISH WONDERS. 


pilin’ on the airth an’ shtones. So he conies craipin’ up on 
him an’ when he got purty dost, he riz an’ says, ‘ Hilloo, Nay- 
ber ! ’ Now Belzebub was like to dhrop on the ground wid 
fright at the look av him, he was that astonished. But there 
was no gettin’ away, so he shtopped on the job, wiped the 
shweat alf his face, an’ says, ‘ Hilloo yerself .’ 

u 6 Ye ’re at yer owld thricks,’ says the blessed Caruck. 

“ ‘ Slimall blame to me, that ’s,’ says Belzebub, ‘ wid yer 
churches an’ saints an’ convartin’ thim haythens, ye’re shpiling 
me business entirely. Sure, have n’t I got to airn me bread ? ’ 
says he, spakin’ up as bowld as a cock, and axcusin’ himself. 

“ At first the blessed Caruck was goin’ to be rough wid him 
for shtrivin’ to interfare wid the church an’ the priest’s 
house be risin’ the wather on thim, but that minnit the moon 
shone out as bright as day an’ he looked back an’ there was 
the beautifulest lake he iver set his blessed eyes on, an’ the 
church wid its towers riz above it like a fairy cassel in a 
dhrame, an’ he clasped his hands wid delight. So Satan 
looked too an’ was mortefied to death wid invy when he seen 
how he bate himself at his own game. 

“ So the blessed Caruck towld Belzebub to lave the dam 
where it was, an’ then, thinkin’ av the poor bog-throtters that 
’ud nade the turf, he ordhered him beways av a punishmint, 
to dig all the turf there was in the bog an’ pile it up on the 
hill to dhry. 

“ ‘ Don’t you lave as much as a speck av it undher wather,’ 
says he to him, ‘ or as sure as I’m a saint I ’ll make ye repint 
it to the end o’ yer snakin’ life,’ says he, an’ thin stud on the 
hank an’ watched the Owld Deludher while he brought out 
the turf in loads on his back, an’ ivery load as big as the 
church, till the hape av sods was as high as a mountain. So 
he got it done be mornin’, an’ glad enough was the divil to 


HOW THE LAKES WERE MADE. 


91 


have the job aff his hands, fur he was as wet as a goose in May 
an as tired as a pedler’s donkey. So the blessed Caruck 
towld him to take himself aff an’ not come back : that he was 
mighty well plazed to do. 



“ That ’s the way the lake come to be here, an’ the blessed 
Caruck come well out o’ that job, fur he sold the turf an’ 
built a big house on the shore wid the money, an’ chated the 
divil besides, Glory be to God, when the Owld W an was thry- 
in’ his best fur to sarcumvint a saint.” 


ABOUT THE FAIRIES. 



JHE Oriental luxuriance of the 
Irish mythology is nowhere 
more conspicuously displayed 
than when dealing with the 
history, habits, characteris- 
tics and pranks of the “ good 
people.” According to the 
most reliable of the rural 
“ fairy-men,” a race now 
nearly extinct, the fairies 
were once angels, so numer- 
ous as to have formed a large 
part of the population of 
When Satan sinned and drew throngs of the heav- 
enly host with him into open rebellion, a large number of the 
less warlike spirits stood aloof from the contest that followed, 
fearing the consequences, and not caring to take sides till the 
issue of the conflict was determined. Upon the defeat and ex- 
pulsion of the rebellious angels, those who had remained neu- 
tral were punished by banishment from heaven, but their of- 
fence being only one of omission, they were not consigned to 
the pit with Satan and his followers, but were sent to earth 
where they still remain, not without hope that on the last day 
they may be pardoned and readmitted to Paradise. They are 
thus on their good behavior, but having power to do infinite 


ABOUT THE FAIRIES. 


93 


harm, they are much feared, and spoken of, either in a whis- 
per or aloud, as the “ good people.” 

Unlike Leprechawns, who are not considered fit associates 
for reputable fairies, the good people are not solitary, but 
quite sociable, and always live in large societies, the members 
of which pursue the cooperative plan of labor and enjoyment, 
owning all their property, the kind and amount of which are 
somewhat indefinite, in common, and uniting their efforts to 
accomplish any desired object, whether of work or play. 
They travel in large bands, and although their parties are 
never seen in the daytime, there is little difficulty in ascertain- 
ing their line of march, for, “ sure they make the terriblest 
little cloud o’ dust iver raised, an’ not a bit o’ wind in it at 
all,” so that a fairy migration is sometimes the talk of the 
county. “ Though, be nacher, they ’re not the length av yer 
finger, they can make thimselves the bigness av a tower when 
it plazes thim, an’ av that ugliness that ye ’d faint wid the 
looks o’ thim, as knowin’ they can shtrike ye dead on the 
shpot or change ye into a dog, or a pig, or a unicorn, or anny 
other dirthy baste they plaze.” 

As a matter of fact, however, the fairies are by no means 
so numerous at present as they were formerly, a recent histo- 
rian remarking that the National Schools and societies of 
Father Mathew are rapidly driving the fairies out of the 
country, for “ they hate lamin’ an’ wisdom an’ are lovers av 
nacher entirely.” 

In a few remote districts, where the schools are not yet well 
established, the good people are still found, and their doings 
are narrated with a childlike faith in the power of these first 
inhabitants of Ireland, for it seems to be agreed that they 
were in the country long before the coming either of the 
Irishman or of his Sassenagh oppressor. 


94 


IRISH WONDERS. 


The bodies of the fairies are not composed of flesh and 
bones, but of an ethereal substance, the nature of which is 
not determined. “ Ye can see thimselves as plain as the nose 
on yer face, an’ can see through thim like it was a mist.” 
They have the power of vanishing from human sight when 
they please^ and the fact that the air is sometimes full of them 
inspires the respect entertained for them by the peasantry. 
Sometimes they are heard without being seen, and when they 
travel through the air, as they often do, are known by a hum- 
ming noise similar to that made by a swarm of bees. Whether 
or not they have wings is uncertain. Barney Murphy, of 
Kerry, thought they had ; for several seen by him a number 
of years ago seemed to have long, semi-transparent pinions, 
“ like thim that grows on a dhraggin-fly.” Barney’s neigh- 
bors, however, contradicted him by stoutly denying the good 
people the attribute of wings, and intimated that at the time 
Barney saw the fairies he was too drunk to distinguish a pair 
of wings from a pair of legs, so this branch of the subject 
must remain in doubt. 

With regard to their dress, the testimony is undisputed. 
Young lady fairies wear pure white robes and usually allow 
their hair to flow loosely over their shoulders; while fairy 
matrons bind up their tresses in a coil on the top or back of 
the head, also surrounding the temples with a golden band. 
Young gentlemen elves wear green jackets, with white 
breeches and stockings ; and when a fairy of either sex has 
need of a cap or head-covering, the flower of the fox-glove 
is brought into requisition. 

Male fairies are perfect in all military exercises, for, like 
the other inhabitants of Ireland, fairies are divided into fac- 
tions, the objects of contention not, in most cases, being defi- 
nitely known. In Kerry, a number of years ago, there was a 


ABOUT THE FAIRIES. 


95 


great battle among the fairies, one party inhabiting a rath or 
sepulchral mound, the other an unused and lonely graveyard. 
Paddy O’Donohue was the sole witness of this encounter, the 
narrative being in his own words. 

“ I was lyin’ be the road, bein’ on me way home an’ tired 
wid the walkin’. A bright moon was out that night, an’ I 
heard a noise like a million av sogers, thrampin’ on the road, 
so I riz me an’ looked, an’ the way was full av little men, the 
length o’ me hand, wid grane coats on, an’ all in rows like 
wan o’ the ridgmints ; aitch wid a pike on his showldher an’ a 
shield on his arrum. Wan was in front, beway he was the 
ginral, walkin’ wid his chin up as proud as a paycock. Jagers, 
but I was skairt an’ prayed fasther than iver I did in me life, 
for it was too dost to me entirely they wor for comfort or 
convaynience aither. But they all went by, sorra the wan o’ 
thim turnin’ his head to raygard me at all, Glory be to God 
for that same ; so they left me. Afther they were clane gone 
by, I had curosity for to see phat they were afther, so I fol- 
ly’d thim, a good bit aff, an’ ready to jump an’ run like a hare 
at the laste noise, for I was afeared if they caught me at it, 
they ’d make a pig o’ me at wanst or change me into a baste 
complately. They marched into the field bechuxt the grave- 
yard an’ the rath, an’ there was another army there wid red 
coats, from the graveyard, an’ the two armies had the biggest 
fight ye iver seen, the granes agin the reds. Afther lookin’ on 
a bit, I got axcited, for the granes were batin’ the reds like 
blazes, an’ I up an’ give a whilloo an’ called out, ‘ At ’em 
agin ! Don’t lave wan o’ the blaggards ! ’ An’ wid that 
word, the sight left me eyes an’ I remimber no more till 
mornin’, an’ there was . I, layin’ on the road where I seen 
thim, as shtiff as a crutch.” 

The homes of the fairies are commonly in raths, tumuli of 


96 


IRISH WONDERS. 


the pagan days of Ireland, and, on this account, raths are 
much dreaded, and after sundown are avoided by the peasan- 
try. Attempts have been made to remove some of these raths, 
but the unwillingness of the peasants to engage in the work, 
no matter what inducements may be offered in compensa- 
tion, has generally resulted in the abandonment of the un- 
dertaking. On one of the islands in the Upper Lake of Kil- 
larney there is a rath, and the proprietor, finding it occupied 
too much ground, resolved to have it levelled to increase the 
arable surface of the field. The work was begun, but one 
morning, in the early dawn, as the laborers were crossing the 
lake on their way to the island, they saw a procession of about 
two hundred persons, habited like monks, leave the island 
and proceed to the mainland, followed, as the workmen 
thought, by a long line of small, shining figures. The phe- 
nomenon was perhaps genuine, for the mirage is by no means 
an uncommon appearance in some parts of Ireland, but work 
on the rath was at once indefinitely postponed. Besides raths, 
old castles, deserted graveyards, ruined churches, secluded glens 
in the mountains, springs, lakes, and caves all are the homes 
and resorts of fairies, as is very well known on the west coast. 

The better class of fairies are fond of human society and 
often act as guardians to those they love. In parts of Done- 
gal and Galway they are believed to receive the souls of the 
dying and escort them to the gates of heaven, not, however, 
being allowed to enter with them. On this account, fairies 
love graves and graveyards, having often been seen walking 
to and fro among the grassy mounds. There are, indeed, 
some accounts of faction fights among the fairy bands at or 
shortly after a funeral, the question in dispute being whether 
the soul of the departed belonged to one or the other faction. 

The amusements of the fairies consist of music, dancing, 


FAIRY DANCE. 

As played by a Connaught Piper , who learned it from “ the Good People 


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ABOUT THE FAIRIES. 


99 


and ball-playing. In music their skill exceeds that of men, 
while their dancing is perfect, the only drawback being the 
fact that it blights the grass, “ fairy-rings ” of dead grass, ap- 
parently caused by a peculiar fungous growth, being common 
in Ireland. Although their musical instruments are few, the 
fairies use these few with wonderful skill. Near Colooney, in 
Sligo, there is a “ knowlageable woman,” whose grandmother’s 
aunt once witnessed a fairy ball, the music for which was fur- 
nished by an orchestra which the management had no doubt 
been at great pains and expense to secure and instruct. 

“ It was the cutest sight alive. There was a place for thim 
to shtand on, an’ a wondherful big fiddle av the size ye cud 
slape in it, that was played be a monsthrous frog, an’ two lit- 
tle fiddles, that two kittens fiddled on, an’ two big drums, 
baten be cats, an’ two trumpets, played be fat pigs. All round 
the fairies were dancin’ like angels, the fireflies givin’ thim 
light to see by, an’ the moonbames shinin’ on the lake, for it 
was be the shore it was, an’ if ye don’t belave it, the glen ’s 
still there, that they call the fairy glen to this blessed day.” 

The fairies do much singing, seldom, however, save in cho- 
rus, and their songs were formerly more frequently heard than 
at present. Even now a belated peasant, who has been at a 
wake, or is coming home from a fair, in passing a rath will 
sometimes hear the soft strains of their voices in the distance, 
and will hurry away lest they discover his presence and be 
angry at the intrusion on their privacy. When in unusually 
good spirits they will sometimes admit a mortal to their revels, 
but if he speaks, the scene at once vanishes, he becomes in- 
sensible, and generally finds himself by the roadside the next 
morning, “ wid that degray av pains in his arrums an’ legs an’ 
back, that if sixteen thousand divils were afther him, he cud 
n’t stir a toe to save the sowl ay him, that ’s phat the fairies 


100 


IRISH WONDERS. 


do be pinchin’ an’ punchin’ him for cornin’ on them an’ 
shpakin’ out loud.” 

Kindly disposed fairies often take great pleasure in assisting 
those who treat them with proper respect, and as the favors al- 
ways take a practical form, there is sometimes a business value 
in the show of reverence for them. There was Barney Noonan, 
of the County Leitrim, for instance, “ An’ sorra a betther boy 
was in the county than Barney. He ’d work as reg’lar as a 
pump, an’ liked a bit av divarshun as well as annybody when 
he ’d time for it, that was n’t aften, to be sure, but small 
blame to him, for he was n’t rich be no manner o’ manes. 
He ’d a power av ragard av the good people, an’ when he 
wint be the rath beyant his field, he ’d pull aff his caubeen an’ 
take the dudheen out av his mouth, as p’lite as a dancin’ 
masther, an’ say, ‘ God save ye, ladies an’ gintlemen,’ that the 
good people always heard though they niver showed thim- 
selves to him. He ’d a bit o’ bog, that the hay was on, an’ 
afther cuttin’ it, he left it for to dhry, an’ the sun come out 
beautiful an’ in a day or so the hay was as dhry as powdher 
an’ ready to put away. 

“ So Barney was goin’ to put it up, but, it bein’ the day av 
the fair, he thought he ’d take the calf an’ sell it, an’ so he 
did, an’ cornin’ up wid the boys, he stayed over his time, bein’ 
hindhered wid dhrinkin’ an’ dancin’ an’ palaverin’ at the gurls, 
so it was afther dark when he got home an’ the night as black 
as a crow, the clouds gatherin’ on the tops av the mountains 
like avil sper’ts an’ crapin’ down into the glens like dis- 
throyin’ angels, an’ the wind howlin’ like tin thousand Ban- 
shees, but Barney did n’t mind it all wan copper, bein’ glori- 
fied wid the dhrink he ’d had. So the hay niver enthered the 
head av him, but in he wint an’ tumbled in bed an’ was shnor- 
in’ like a horse in two minnits, for he was a bach’ler, God 


ABOUT THE FAIRIES. 


101 


bless him, an had no wife to gosther him an’ ax him where 
he ’ d been, an’ phat he ’d been at, an’ make him tell a hunderd 
lies about not gettin home afore. So it came on to thunder 
an lighten like as all the avil daymons in the univarse were 
fightin’ wid cannons in the shky, an’ by an by there was a 
clap loud enough to sliplit yer skull an’ Barney woke up. 

“ ‘ Tattheration to me/ says he to himself, ‘ it ’s goin’ for 
to rain an’ me hay on the ground. Phat ’ll I do ? ’ says he. 

“ So he rowled over on the bed an’ looked out av a crack 
for to see if it was ralely rainin’. An’ there was the biggest 
crowd he iver seen av little men an’ wimmin. They ’d built 
a row o’ fires from the cow-house to the bog an’ were cornin’ 
in a shtring like the cows goin’ home, aitch wan wid his two 
arrums full o’ hay. Some were in the cow-house, resayvin’ 
the hay ; some were in the field, rakin’ the hay together ; an’ 
some were shtandin’ wid their hands in their pockets beways 
they were the bosses, tellin’ the rest for to make haste. An’ so 
they did, for every wan run like he was afther goin’ for the 
docther, an’ brought a load an’ hurried back for more. 

“ Barney looked through the crack at thim a crossin’ him- 
self ivery minnit wid admiration for the shpeed they had. 
‘ God be good to me,’ says he to himself, ‘ ’t is not ivery gos- 
soon in Leitrim that ’s got haymakers like thim,’ only he 
never spake a word out loud, for he knewn very well the good 
people ’ud n’t like it. So they brought in all the hay an’ put 
it in the house an’ thin let the fires go out an’ made another 
big fire in front o’ the dure, an’ begun to dance round it wid 
the swatest music Barney iver heard. 

“ Now be this time he ’d got up an’ feelin’ aisey in his 
mind about the hay, begun to be very merry. He looked on 
through the dure at thim dancin’, an’ by an’ by they brought 
out a jug wid little tumblers and begun to drink summat that 


102 


IRISH WONDERS. 


they poured out o’ the jug. If Barney had the sense av a 
h err in’, he ’d a kept shtill an’ let thim dhrink their fill widout 
openin’ the big mouth av him, bein’ that he was as full as a 
goose himself an’ naded no more ; but when he seen the jug 
an’ the tumblers an’ the fairies drinkin’ away wid all their 
mights, he got mad an’ bellered out like a bull, i Arra-a-a-h 
now, ye little attomies, is it dkrinkin’ ye are, an’ never givin 
a sup to a thirsty mortial that always thrates yez as well as 
he knows how,’ and immejitly the fairies, an’tlie fire, an’ the 
jug all wint out av his sight, an’ he to bed agin in a timper. 
While he was layin’ there, he thought he heard talkin’ an’ a 
cugger-mugger goin’ on, but when he peeped out agin, sorra 
a thing did he see but the black night an’ the rain cornin’ 
down an’ aitch dhrop the full av a wather-noggin. So he wint 
to slape, continted that the hay was in, but not plazed that 
the good people ’ud be pigs entirely, to be afther dhrinkin’ 
undher his eyes an’ not offer him a taste, no, not so much as 
a slimell at the jug. 

“ In the mornin’ up he gets an’ out for to look at the hay 
an’ see if the fairies put it in right, for he says, ‘ It ’s a job 
they ’re not used to.’ So he looked in the cow-house an’ 
thought the eyes ’ud lave him when there was n’t a shtraw in 
the house at all. ‘ Holy Moses,’ says he, ‘ phat have they 
done wid it ? ’ an’ he could n’t consave phat had gone wid the 
hay. So he looked in the field an’ it was all there ; bad luck 
to the bit av it had the fairies left in the house at all, but 
when he shouted at thim, they got tarin’ mad an’ took all the 
hay back agin to the bog, puttin’ every shtraw where Barney 
laid it, an’ it was as wet as a drownded cat. But it was a les- 
son to him he niver forgot, an’ I go bail that the next time 
the fairies help him in wid his hay he ’ll kape shtill an’ let 
thim dhrink thimselves to death if they plaze widout sayin’ a 
word.” 


ABOUT THE FAIRIES. 


103 


The good people have the family relations of husband and 
wife, parent and child, and although it is darkly hinted by 
some that fairy husbands and wives have as many little disa- 
greements as are found in mortal households, “for, sure a 
woman’s tongue is longer than a man’s patience,” and “ a 
husband is bound for to be gosthered day in an’ day out, for 
a woman’s jaw is sharpened on the divil’s grindshtone,” yet 
opinions unfavorable to married happiness among the fairies 
are not generally received. On the contrary, it is believed 
that married life in fairy circles is regulated on the basis of 
the absolute submission of the wife to the husband. As this 
point was elucidated by a Donegal woman, “ They ’re wan, 
that ’s the husband an’ the wife, but he ’s more the wan 
than she is.” 

The love of children is one of the most prominent traits of 
fairy character, but as it manifests itself by stealing beautiful 
babes, replacing them by young Leprechawns, the fairies are 
much dreaded by west coast mothers, and many precautions are 
taken against the elves. Thefts of this kind now rarely occur, 
but once they were common, as “ in thim owld times, ye cud 
see tin fairies where there is n’t wan now, be razon o thim 
lavin’ the counthry.” 

A notable case of baby stealing occurred in the family of 
Termon Magrath, who had a castle, now in picturesque ruins, 
on the shore of Lough Erne, in the County Donegal. The 
narrator of the incident was “ a knowledgable woman, who 
dwelt in an apology for a cabin, a thatched shed placed 
against the precipitous side of the glen almost beneath the 
castle. The wretched shelter was nearly concealed from view 
by the overhanging branches of a large tree and by thick un- 
dergrowth, and seemed unfit for a pig-pen, but, though her 
surroundings were poor beyond description, “ Owld Meg, 


104 


IRISH WONDERS. 


in the language of one of her neighbors, “ knew a dale av 
fairies an’ witches an’ could kape thim from a babby betther 
than anny woman that iver dhrew the breath av life.” A bit 



of tobacco to enable her to take a u dhraw o’ the pipe, an’ 
that warms me heart to the whole worruld,” brought forth 
the story. 


ABOUT THE FAIRIES. 


105 


u It s a manny year ago, that Termon Magrath wint, wid 
all his army, to the war in the County Tyrone, an’ while he 
was gone the babby was born an’ they called her Eva. She 
was her mother’s first, so she felt moighty onaisey in her mind 
about her ’s knowiiT that the good people do be always afther 
the first wan that comes, an’ more whin it ’s a girl that ’s in 
it, that they thry to stale harder than they do a boy, bekase 
av belavin’ they ’re aisier fur to rare, though it ’s mesilf that 
does n’t belave that same, fur wan girl makes more throuble 
than tin boys an’ is n’t a haporth more good. 

“ So whin the babby was born they sent afther an owld 
struckawn av a widdy that set up for a wise woman, that 
knew no more o’ doclherin’ than a pig av Paradise, but they 
thought she could kape away the fairies, that ’s a job that 
takes no ind av knowledge in thim that thries it. But the 
poor owld woman did the best she knew how, an’ so, God be 
good to her, she was n’t to be blamed fur that, but it ’s the 
likes av her that do shame thim that ’s larned in such things, 
fur they make people think all wise wimmin as ignerant as 
hersilf . So she made the sign o’ the crass on the babby’s face 
wid ashes, an’ towld thim to bite aff its nails and not cut 
thim till nine weeks, an’ held a burnin’ candle afore its eyes, 
so it ’ud do the deeds av light an’ not av darkness, an’ mixed 
sugar an’ salt an’ oil, an’ give it to her, that her life ’ud be 
swate an’ long presarved an’ go smooth, but the owld widdy 
forgot wan thing. She did n’t put a lucky shamrock, that ’s 
got four leaves, in a gospel an’ tie it ’round the babby’s neck 
wid a t’read pulled out av her gown, an’ not mindin’ this, all 
the rest was no good at all. No more did she tell the mother 
not to take her eyes aff the child till the ninth day ; afther that 
the fairies cud n’t take it. 

“ So the nurse tuk the babby in the next room an’ laid it 


106 


IRISH WONDERS. 


on the bed, an’ wint away for a minnit, but thinkin’ she heard 
it cry, back she come an’ there was the babby, bedclothes an’ 
all just goin’ through the flure, bein’ dhrawn be the fairies. 
The nurse scraiched an’ caught the clothes an’ the maid helped 
her, so that the two o’ thim pulled wid all their mights an’ got 
the bedclothes up agin, but while the child was out o’ sight, 
the fairies changed it an’ put a fairy child in its place, but the 
nurse did n’t know phat the fairies done, no more did the 
owld struckawn, that shows she was an ignerant woman en- 
tirely. But the fairies tuk Eva away undher the lake where 
they trated her beautiful. Every night they gev her a dance, 
wid the loveliest music that was iver heard, wid big drums an’ 
little drums, an’ fiddles an’ pipes an’ thrumpets, fur such a 
band the good people do have when they give a dance. 

" So she grew an’ the quane said she should have a hus- 
band among the fairies, but she fell in love wid an owld Lep- 
rechawn, an’ the quane, to sarcumvint her, let her walk on the 
shore o’ the lake where she met Darby O’Hoolighan an’ loved 
him an’ married him be the quane’s consint. The quane 
towld her to tell him if he shtruck her three blows widout a 
razon, she ’d lave him an’ come back to the fairies. The 
quane gev her a power av riches, shape an’ pigs widout num- 
ber an’ more oxen than ye cud count in a week. So she an’ 
Darby lived together as happy as two doves, an’ she had n’t 
as much care as a blind piper’s dog, morebetoken, they had 
two boys, good lookin’ like their mother an’ shtrong as their 
father. 

“ Wan day, afther they ’d been marred siventeen years, she 
an’ Darby were goin’ to a weddin,’ an’ she was shlow, so Darby 
towld her fur to hurry an’ gev her a slap on the shouldher wid 
the palm av his hand, so she begun to cry. He axed her phat 
ailed her an’ she towld him he ’d shtruck her the first av the 


ABOUT THE FAIRIES. 


107 


three blows. So he was mighty sorry an’ said he ’d be careful, 
but it was n’t more than a year afther, when he was taichin’ 
wan o’ the boys to use a shtick, that she got behind him an’ 
got hit wid the shillaly. That was the second blow, an’ made 
her lose her timper, an’ they had a rale quarl. So he got mad, 
sayin’ that nayther o’ thim blows ought to be counted, bein’ 
they both come be accident. So he flung the shtick agin the 
wall, ‘ Divil take the shtick,’ says he, an’ went out quick, an’ 
the shtick fell back from the wall an’ hit her an the head. 



‘ That ’s the third,’ says she, an’ she kissed her sons an’ 
walked out. Thin she called the cows in the field an’ they 
left grazin’ an’ folly’ d her; she called the oxen in the sh tails 
an’ they quit atin’ an’ come out ; an’ she shpoke to the calf 
that was hangin’ in the yard, that they ’d killed that morn in’ 
an’ it got down an’ come along. The lamb that was killed 
the day afore, it come ; an’ the pigs that were salted an’ thim 
hangin’ up to dhry, they come, all afther her in a shtring. 
Thin she called to her things in the house, an’ the chairs 
walked out, an’ the tables, an’ the chist av drawers, an’ the 


108 


IRISH WONDERS. 


boxes, all o’ thim put out legs like bastes an’ come along, wid 
the pots an’ pans, an’ gridiron, an’ buckets, an’ noggins, an’ 
kish, lavin’ the house as bare as a ’victed tinant’s, an’ all af- 
ther her to the lake, where they wint undher an’ disappared, 
an’ have n’t been seen be man or mortial to this blessed day. 

“ Now, there ’s thim that says the shtory aint thrue, fur, 
says they, how ’ud a woman do such a thrick as go alf that a 
way an’ take ivery thing she had, just bekase av her husband 
hittin’ her be accident thim three times. But thim that says 
it forgits that she was a young wan, aven if she did have 
thim boys I was afther tellin’ ye av, an’ faith, it ’s no lie I ’m 
sayin’, that it ’s not in the power av the angels o’ God to be 
knowin’ phat a young wan ’ull be doin’. Afther they get 
owld, an’ do be losin’ their taythe, an’ their beauty goes, thin 
they ’re sober an’ get over thim notions ; but it takes a dale av 
time to make an owld wan out av a young wan. 

“ But she did n’t forget the boys she ’d left, an’ wanst in a 
while she ’d come to the aidge av the lake whin they were 
dost be the bank an’ spake wid thim, fur aven, if she was 
half a fairy, she ’d the mother’s heart that the good God put 
in her bosom ; an’ wan time they seen her wid a little attomy 
av a man alang wid her, that was a Leprechawn, as they 
knewn be the look av him, an’ that makes me belave that the 
rale rayzon av her lavin’ her husband was to get back to the 
owld Leprechawn she was in love wid afore she was marr’d 
to Darby O’Hoolighan.” • 


THE BANSHEE. 


the Irish have the reputation 
of being grossly superstitious, 
they are not a whit more so 
than the peasantry of Eng- 
land, France, or Germany, nor 
scarcely as much addicted to 
superstitious beliefs and fan- 
cies as the lower class of 
Scottish Highlanders. The 
Irish imagination is, how- 
ever, so lively as to endow 
the legends of the Emerald Isle with an individuality 
not possessed by those of most other nations, while the 
Irish command of language presents the creatures of Hi- 
bernian fancy in a garb so vividly real and yet so fantasti- 
cally original as to make an impression sometimes exceedingly 
startling. 

Of the creations of the Irish imagination, some are humor- 
ous, some grotesque, and some awe-inspiring even to sublim- 
ity, and chief among the last class is “ the weird-wailing Ban- 
shee, that sings by night her mournful cry,” giving notice to 
the family she attends that one of its members is soon to be 
called to the spirit-world. The name of this dreaded attend- 
ant is variously pronounced, as Banshee, Banshi, and Ben- 
shee, being translated by different scholars, the Female Fairy, 
the Woman of Peace, the Lady of Death, the Angel of Death, 



110 


IRISH WONDERS. 


SONG OF THE BANSHEE. 

By a Kerry Pishogue. 



the White Lady of Sorrow, the Nymph of the Air, and the 
Spirit of the Air. The Banshee is quite distinct from the 
Fearshee or Shifra, the Man of Peace, the latter bringing 
good tidings and singing a joyful lay near the house when un- 
expected good fortune is to befall any or all its inmates. The 
Banshee is really a disembodied soul, that of one who, in life, 
was strongly attached to the family, or who had good reason 
to hate all its members. Thus, in different instances, the 
Banshee’s song may be inspired by opposite motives. When 
the Banshee loves those whom she calls, the song is a low, soft 
chant, giving notice, indeed, of the close proximity of the 
angel of death, but with a tenderness of tone that reassures 
the one destined to die and comforts the survivors ; rather a 
welcome than a warning, and having in its tones a thrill of 
exultation, as though the messenger spirit were bringing glad 
tidings to him summoned to join the waiting throng of his 
ancestors. If, during her lifetime, the Banshee was an enemy 
of the family, the cry is the scream of a fiend, howling with 
demoniac delight over the coming death-agony of another of 
her foes. 

In some parts of Ireland there exists a belief that the spir- 
its of the dead are not taken from earth, nor do they lose all 
their former interest in earthly affairs, but enjoy the happi- 
ness of the saved, or suffer the punishment imposed for their 


THE BANSHEE. 


Ill 


sins, in the neighborhood of the scenes among which they 
lived while clothed in flesh and blood. At particular crises 
in the affairs of mortals, these disenthralled spirits sometimes 
display joy or grief in such a manner as to attract the atten- 
tion of living men and women. At weddings they are fre- 
quently unseen guests ; at funerals they are always present ; 
and sometimes, at both weddings and funerals, their presence 
is recognized by aerial voices or mysterious music known to 
be of unearthly origin. The spirits of the good wander with 
the living as guardian angels, but the spirits of the bad are 
restrained in their action, and compelled to do penance at or 
near the places where their crimes were committed. Some are 
chained at the bottoms of the lakes, others buried under 
ground, others confined in mountain gorges ; some hang on 
the sides of precipices, others are transfixed on the tree-tops, 
while others haunt the homes of their ancestors, all waiting 
till the penance has been endured and the hour of release ar- 
rives. The Castle of Dunseverick, in Antrim, is believed to 
be still inhabited by the spirit of a chief, who there atones for 
a horrid crime, while the castles of Dunluce, of Magrath, and 
many others are similarly peopled by the wicked dead. In 
the Abbey of Clare, the ghost of a sinful abbot walks and 
will continue to do so until his sin has been atoned for by the 
prayers he unceasingly mutters in his tireless march up and 
down the aisles of the ruined nave. 

The Banshee is of the spirits who look with interested eyes 
on earthly doings ; and, deeply attached to the old families, 
or, on the contrary, regarding all their members with a hatred 
beyond that known to mortals, lingers about their dwellings 
to soften or to aggravate the sorrow of the approaching death. 
The Banshee attends only the old families, and though their 
descendants, through misfortune, may be brought down from 


112 


IRISH WONDERS. 


high estate to the ranks of peasant-tenants, she never leaves 
nor forgets them till the last member has been gathered to 
his fathers in the churchyard. The MacCarthys, Magraths, 
O’Neills, O’Rileys, O’Sullivans, O’Reardons, O’Flahertys, and 
almost all other old families of Ireland, have Banshees, 
though many representatives of these names are in abject 
poverty. 

The song of the Banshee is commonly heard a day or two 
before the death of which it gives notice, though instances 
are cited of the song at the beginning of a course of conduct 
or line of undertaking that resulted fatally. Thus, in Kerry, 
a young girl engaged herself to a youth, and at the moment 
her promise of marriage was given, both heard the low, sad 
wail above their heads. The young man deserted her, she 
died of a broken heart, and the night before her death, the 
Banshee’s song, loud and clear, was heard outside the window 
of her mother’s cottage. One of the O’Flahertys, of Galway, 
marched out of his castle with his men on a foray, and, as his 
troops filed through the gateway, the Banshee was heard high 
above the towers of the fortress. The next night she sang 
again, and was heard no more for a month, when his wife 
heard the wail under her window, and on the following day 
his followers brought back his corpse. One of the O’Neills 
of Shane Castle, in Antrim, heard the Banshee as he started 
on a journey before daybreak, and was accidentally killed 
some time after, but while on the same journey. 

The wail most frequently comes at night, although cases are 
cited of Banshees singing during the daytime, and the song is 
often inaudible to all save the one for whom the warning is 
intended. This, however, is not general, the death notice be- 
ing for the family rather than for the doomed individual. 
The spirit is generally alone, though rarely several are heard 


THE BANSHEE. 


113 


singing in chorus. A lady of the O’ Flaherty family, greatly 
beloved for her social qualities, benevolence, and piety, was, 
some years ago, taken ill at the family mansion near Galway, 
though no uneasiness was felt on her account, as her ailment 



seemed nothing more than a slight cold. After she had re- 
mained in-doors for a day or two several of her acquaintances 
came to her room to enliven her imprisonment, and while the 
little party were merrily chatting, strange sounds were heard, 


114 


IRISH WONDERS. 


and all trembled and turned pale as they recognized the sing- 
ing of a chorus of Banshees. The lady’s ailment developed 
into pleurisy, and she died in a few days, the chorus being 
again heard in a sweet, plaintive requiem as the spirit was 
leaving her body. The honor of being warned by more than 
one Banshee is, however, very great, and comes only to the 
purest of the pure. 

The “ hateful Banshee ” is much dreaded by members of a 
family against which she has enmity. A noble Irish family, 
whose name is still familiar in Mayo, is attended by a Banshee 
of this description. This Banshee is the spirit of a young girl 
deceived and afterwards murdered by a former head of the 
family. With her dying breath she cursed her murderer, and 
promised she would attend him and his forever. Many years 
passed, the chieftain reformed his ways, and his youthful 
crime was almost forgotten even by himself, when, one night, 
he and his family were seated by the fire, and suddenly the 
most horrid shrieks were heard outside the castle walls. All 
ran out, but saw nothing. During the night the screams con- 
tinued as though the castle were besieged by demons, and the 
unhappy man recognized, in the cry of the Banshee, the voice 
of the young girl he had murdered. The next night he was 
assassinated by one of his followers, when again the wild, un- 
earthly screams of the spirit were heard, exulting over his 
fate. Since that night, the “ hateful Banshee ” has never 
failed to notify the family, with shrill cries of revengeful glad- 
ness, when the time of one of their number had arrived. 

Banshees are not often seen, but those that have made 
themselves visible differ as much in personal appearance as in 
the character of their cries. The “ friendly Banshee ” is a 
young and beautiful female spirit, with pale face, regular, 
well-formed features, hair sometimes coal-black, sometimes 



THE “ FRIENDLY BANSHEE.” Page 114. 




























































































THE BANSHEE. 


117 


golden ; eyes blue, brown, or black. Her long, white drapery 
falls below her feet as she floats in the air, chanting her weird 
warning, lifting her hands as if in pitying tenderness bestow- 
ing a benediction on the soul she summons to the invisible 
world. The “ hateful Banshee ” is a horrible hag, with an- 
gry, distorted features ; maledictions are written in every line 
of her wrinkled face, and her outstretched arms call down 
curses on the doomed member of the hated race. Though 
generally the only intimation of the presence of the Banshee 
is her cry, a notable instance of the contrary exists in the 
family of the O’ Reardons, to the doomed member of which 
the Banshee always appears in the shape of an exceedingly 
beautiful woman, who sings a song so sweetly solemn as to 
reconcile him to his approaching fate. 

The prophetic spirit does not follow members of a family 
who go to a foreign land, but should death overtake them 
abroad, she gives notice of the misfortune to those at home. 
When the Duke of Wellington died, the Banshee was heard 
wailing round the house of his ancestors, and during the Na- 
poleonic campaigns, she frequently notified Irish families of 
the death in battle of Irish officers and soldiers. The night 
before the battle of the Boyne several Banshees were heard 
singing in the air over the Irish camp, the truth of their 
prophecy being verified by the death-roll of the next day. 

How the Banshee is able to obtain early and accurate infor- 
mation from foreign parts of the death in battle of Irish sol- 
diers is yet undecided in Hibernian mystical circles. Some 
believe that there are, in addition to the two kinds already 
mentioned, “ silent Banshees/’ who act as attendants to the 
members of old families, one to each member ; that these 
silent spirits follow and observe, bringing back intelligence to 
the family Banshee at home, who then, at the proper seasons, 


118 


IRISH WONDERS. 


sings her dolorous strain. A partial confirmation of this 
theory is seen in the fact that the Banshee has given notice at 
the family seat in Ireland of deaths in battles fought in every 
part of the world. From North America, the West Indies, 
Africa, Australia, India, China; from every point to which 
Irish regiments have followed the roll of the British drums, 
news of the prospective shedding of Irish blood has been 
brought home, and the slaughter preceded by a Banshee wail 
outside the ancestral windows. But it is due to the reader to 
state, that this silent Banshee theory is by no means well or 
generally received, the burden of evidence going to show that 
there are only two kinds of Banshees, and that, in a super- 
natural way, they know the immediate future of those in 
whom they are interested, not being obliged to leave Ireland 
for the purpose of obtaining their information. 

Such is the wild Banshee, once to be heard in every part 
of Ireland, and formerly believed in so devoutly that to ex- 
press a doubt of her existence was little less than blasphemy. 
Now, however, as she attends only the old families and does 
not change to the new, with the disappearance of many noble 
Irish names during the last half century have gone also their 
Banshees, until in only a few retired districts of the west coast 
is the dreaded spirit still found, while in most parts of the 
island she has become only a superstition, and from the maj- 
esty of a death-boding angel, is rapidly sinking to a level with 
the Fairy, the Leprechawn and the Pooka; the subject for 
tales to amuse the idle and terrify the young. 


THE ROUND TOWERS. 


r the ruins spread everywhere over 
island, relics of prehistoric Ireland 
common, but wonderful as are many 
of these monumental remains of a 
people as mysterious as their own 
structures, none are more remark- 
able than the round towers, found 
in almost every locality of note 
either for its history or antiquities. 
The number of these towers was 
formerly very great, but from the 
ravages of time, the convenience of 
the structures as quarries of ready 
hewn stone, and intentional destruc- 
tion by intolerant or thoughtless persons, they have gradually 
disappeared, until, at present, only eighty-three remain, of 
which seventeen are nearly perfect, the remainder being in a 
more or less advanced stage of dilapidation. 

The round towers vary in height, those remaining perfect 
or nearly so being from seventy to two hundred feet, and from 
eighty to thirty feet in diameter at the base. The entrance 
is twelve to eighteen feet from the ground, the tower being 
divided into stories about ten feet high, each story lighted by 
a single window, the highest compartment having invariably 
four lancet windows opening to the cardinal points of the 
compass. The roof is conical, made of overlapping stone 



120 


IRISH WONDERS. 


slabs, and a circle of grotesquely carved heads and zigzag or- 
namentation is found beneath the projecting cornice. The 
masonry is of hewn stone, but not the least regularity is ob- 
servable in the size or shape of the blocks, some being very 
large, others small, and every figure known to the geometri- 
cian can be found in the stones of a single tower. 

All towers still standing occupy sites noted as historical, 
and evidence, sufficient to warrant the belief, can be adduced 
to show that almost every historic spot on Irish soil once 
boasted one or more of these interesting structures. The 
existing towers are generally found close by the ruins of 
churches, abbeys, or other ecclesiastical buildings, and the ef- 
fect on the landscape of the masses of ruins, surmounted by a 
single tall shaft, is often picturesque in the extreme. The 
proximity of the tower to the church is so common as to lead 
writers on Irish antiquities to conjecture that the former was 
constructed by the monks who built the church ; those advo- 
cating the Christian origin of the round tower taking the 
ground that it was built, either as a place of safe-keeping for 
valuable property, as a belfry for the church, or for the pur- 
pose of providing cells for hermits. 

No one of these suppositions is tenable. In the troublous 
times of Ireland, and, unhappily, it has had scarcely any other 
kind, the monasteries and ecclesiastical buildings of every 
description were generally spared, even by the most ruthless 
marauders ; and, had this not been the case, those possessing 
sufficient valuable property to attract the cupidity of the law- 
less were far more likely to provide an inconspicuous hiding 
place for their wealth than to advertise its possession by erect- 
ing a tower which, from every direction, was invariably the 
most conspicuous feature of the landscape. That the towers 
were not intended for belfries is evident from the fact that, 


THE ROUND TOWERS. 


121 


in nearly every case, the churches close by are provided with 
bell-towers forming a part of the sacred edifice, which would 
not be the case if the round towers had been designed for the 
purpose of supporting bells. That they were not built for 
hermit-cells is apparent from the fact that hermit-caves and 
cells are abundant in Ireland, and, almost without exception, 
in secluded spots. No doubt, from time to time, some of the 
round towers were adapted to each of these uses, but, in every 
case, convenience was the motive, the monks and church-build- 
ers altering the existing structure to meet a pressing neces- 
sity. In fact, there is excellent reason for believing that the 
round towers were not built by the monks at all, the monastic 
writers being very fond of recording, with great particularity, 
what they built and how they built it, and in no passage do 
they mention the construction of a round tower. Whenever 
allusion is made to these structures, their existence is taken 
for granted, and several church historians who mention the 
erection of churches at the foot of a round tower demonstrate 
that this peculiar edifice antedates the introduction of Chris- 
tianity into Ireland. 

The round towers are indisputably of pagan origin, and of 
antiquity so great as to precede written history. There is no 
doubt that the early Irish were sun and fire worshippers, and 
many excellent reasons may be given for the belief that 
the round towers were built by the Druids for purposes of 
religion. 

Every tower has an extensive view to the East, so as to 
command an early sight of the rising sun, the dawn being the 
favorite hour for celebrating sun-worship. Every tower con- 
tains, at its base, so extraordinary a quantity of ashes and em- 
bers as to compel the conviction that, in each, a sacred or per- 
petual fire was kept burning. In every locality where a round 


122 


IRISH WONDERS. 


tower stands, there linger among the peasantry traditions 
pointing to a use sacred but not Christian. Perhaps the most 
significant indication of their former character as places sacred 
to sun and fire-worship is found in the names by which, to 
the present day, they are known among the common people. 
The generic Irish name for the round tower is Colcagh, fire- 
God ; but the proper names designating particular towers are 
still more characteristic. Turaghan, the Tower of Fire ; 
Aidhne, the Circle of Fire ; Aghadoe, the Field of Fire ; Tegh- 
adoe, the Fire House ; Arddoe, the Height of Fire ; Kennegh, 
the Chief Fire ; Lusk, the Flame ; Fertagh, the Burial Fire 
Tower; Fertagh na Guara, the Burial Fire Tower of the Fire 
W orshippers ; Gall-Ti-mor, the Flame of the Great Circle ; 
Gall-Baal, the Flame of the Community ; Baal-Tinne, the Fire 
of the Community, and many similar names, retain the mem- 
ory and worship of the Druids when written records are silent 
or wanting. 

In addition to the significance contained in the names of 
the towers, the hills, mountains, or islands on which they are 
•situated have, very frequently, designations conveying an al- 
lusion, either to the circle, a favorite and sacred figure in 
Druidical holy places, or to the sun or fire worship. Another 
curious circumstance, still further identifying the round tower 
with the rites of sun worship, is found in the fact that wher- 
ever this form of religion has prevailed, it has been accompa- 
nied by well or spring worship, and, generally, by the venera- 
tion of the ox as a sacred animal. Most of the Irish round 
towers have near them springs or wells still regarded as holy, 
and concerning which many tales of miraculous cures are told, 
while in not a few instances there yet linger in the same 
neighborhoods legends of sacred cows, usually the property 
of some famous local saint or hero. 


THE ROUND TOWERS. 


123 


The round towers of Ireland are, in fact, a portion of a vast 
system of towers of identical construction, and by following 
the geographical course of these structures, the march of fire 
worship from the East may be determined with some accuracy. 
Pass from Ireland to Brittany, and there, in the mountainous 
or hilly districts, several towers are found exactly like those of 
Ireland. In the north of Spain several remain ; in Portugal, 
one ; in the south of Spain they are numerous. Opposite the 
Spanish coast, in the north of Africa, there are also many, be- 
ing found in various places in Morocco, Algeria, Tunis, and 
Tripoli. In Sardinia, several hundred are still standing ; and 
written testimony to the purpose for which they were erected 
is abundant among the Sardinian records. In Minorca, 
among many others, is the famous Tower of Allaior. The 
mountain districts of south Italy have numbers of them, and 
they are also found on several hills in Sicily. Malta has the 
Giant’s Tower, in every particular of appearance and construc- 
tion identical with the Tower of Cashel in Ireland. Cyprus 
has them, and they still remain in Candia and on the coast of 
Asia Minor. In Palestine none have yet been found, or at 
least have not been recorded by travellers or surveyors ; a fact 
that may, perhaps, be fully accounted for by the zeal of the 
Hebrews in destroying every vestige of Canaanitish idolatry ; 
but, with some probability, it is conjectured that the u high 
places ” broken down may have been towers of the sun, for 
the Canaanites were fire worshippers, and the name Baal is 
found alike in Palestine and Ireland. 

In Syria, north of Palestine, they begin again ; are found 
in Armenia, and in the Caucasus, so numerously as to crown 
almost every hill-top. East of the Caspian Sea they abound, 
and towards the centre of Asia as far as records of exploration 
and travel present reliable accounts of the country. Return- 


124 


IRISH WONDERS. 


in g to the shores of the Mediterranean, their existence on the 
northern coast of Africa has been mentioned. In Arabia and 
on the Egyptian shore of the Red Sea, they stand in consider- 
able numbers, are found in Persia, Afghanistan, Beloochistan, 
India, Ceylon, and Sumatra, in some places being still used, it 
is said, for fire worship. 

Throughout this vast extent of territory there is no mate- 
rial difference in the shape, appearance, or construction of the 
round tower. In Sumatra and Java, as in Ireland, the door 
is elevated, the building divided into stories ; the walls are 
constructed of many sided hewn stones, the upper story is 
lighted by four windows looking to the cardinal points, the 
cornice has the same kind of zigzag ornamentation, and the 
roof is constructed in the same manner, of overlapping stones. 
Even the names are nearly the same, for in India and Ireland 
these buildings are Fire-Towers, Fire-Circles, or Sun-Houses. 

Another bit of circumstantial evidence going to prove that 
the round towers of Ireland were erected by a people having 
the same religion and similar religious observances as the na- 
tives of India is seen in the legends concerning the Indian 
towers. In India, the local traditions tell how each of these 
towers was built in one night by some notable character who 
was afterwards buried in it. In Ireland, the same legend is 
found ; to the present day, the peasants of the neighborhood 
telling with gusto the story of the tower being first seen in 
the early morning, rising toward the sky on a spot where, 
the evening before, no preparations for building had been 
visible. 

The Tower Tulloherin, for instance, was built in one night 
by a monk who came to the neighborhood as a missionary. 
Finding the people inhospitable, and unable to obtain lodging 
for the night, he determined to remain, believing there could 


THE ROUND TOWERS. 


125 


not be found in Ireland a locality more in need of missionary 
work. So, on the evening of his arrival, he began to build, 
and by morning the tower was finished, and he took up his 
abode in it, preaching from its entrance to the crowds at- 
tracted by the fame of the miracle. The story of the Tower 
of Aghagower is similar, save in one particular, the saint in 
this case being aided by angels. Kilmackduagh was built in 
one night by angels without human assistance, the work being 
done at the solicitation of a saint who watched and prayed 
while the angels toiled. 

Ballygaddy has a history somewhat less miraculous, the 
local peasant historian attributing its origin to a “ giont ” of 
the neighborhood. Having received a belligerent message 
from another “ giont, 5 ’ he took a stand on Ballygaddy hill to 
watch for the coming of his antagonist, proposing, as the 
humble chronicler stated, “ to bate the head afl: the braggin 5 
vagabone if he said as much as Boo.” For seven days and 
nights he stood upon the hill, and at the end of that time, as 
may readily be believed, “ his legs wor that tired he thought 
they ’d dhrop aff him.” To relieve those valuable members 
he put up the tower as a support to lean on. The bellicose 
gigantic party who proposed the encounter finally came to 
time, and lovers of antiquities will be glad to learn that the 
tower-building giant u did n’t lave a whole bone in the blag- 
gard’s ugly carkidge.” After the battle, the victor u shtarted 
for to kick the tower down,” but, upon second thought, 
concluded to put the roof on it and 66 lave it for a wondher 
to thim little mortials that come afther him,” for which con- 
sideration all honor to his memory. 

The Tower Ardpatrick was, according to tradition, built 
under the auspices of Ireland’s great saint, while the high 
tower on the Rock of Cashel is attributed, by the same au- 


126 


IRISH WONDERS. 


thority, to Cormac Macarthy, king and archbishop of Cashel, 
who, being once engaged in hostilities with a neighboring po- 
tentate, needed a watch-tower, so summoned all his people, 
built the tower in one night, and, at sunrise, was able by its 
help to ascertain the location of the opposing army and so 
give it an overwhelming defeat. The Glendalough Tower 
was built by a demon at the command of Saint Kevin. This 
saint had conspicuously routed Satan on a previous occasion ; 
so the arch-fiend and all the well-informed of his subjects 
kept at a safe distance from Glendalough, not caring to take 
any risks with so doughty a spiritual champion as Saint Kevin 
had proved himself to be in more than one encounter. 

“ But there was wan snakin’ vagabone av a divil that come 
from furrin parts an’ had n’t heard the news about the saint, 
and the blessed saint caught him wan avenin’ an’ set him to 
work to build that tower. So the black rogue wint at it as 
hard as he knew how, an’ was workin’ away wid all the hands 
he had, as busy as a barmaid at a fair, thinkin’ that afore sun- 
rise he ’d have it so high it ’ud fall down be itself an’ do the 
blessed saint not a ha’porth av good. But afther batin’ owld 
Satan himself, Saint Kevin was n’t to be deludhered be wan 
av his undershtrappers, an’ w T as watchin’ wid his two eyes 
every minnit o’ the time, so whin the divil had the tower high 
enough, he threw his bishop’s cap at it, an’ it become shtone 
an’ made the roof, so the omadhawn divil was baten at his 
own game.” 

The round tower is not without a touch of romance, one of 
the most notable structures, Monaster-Boice, having been built 
by a woman under peculiar circumstances. According to the 
legend, she was young, beautiful, and good, but though she 
ought to have been happy also, she was not, being perse- 
cuted by the attentions of a suitor chieftain, whose reputation 


THE ROUND TOWERS. 


127 


must have been far from irreproachable, since he was charac- 
terized by the narrator of the story either as an “ outprobri- 
ous ruffin,” or “ a sootherin’, deludherin’, murtherin’ villin.” 
Loving another chief who was a “ gintleman entirely,” and 
determined to escape from the obnoxious attentions of the 



“ ruffin ” already mentioned, the lady*, having learned that her 
disagreeable suitor had resolved to carry her off, employed two 
men to aid her the night before the proposed abduction, and, 
before morning, built the tower and took up her abode in the 
topmost chamber. In due season the chieftain came “ wid a 
gang av thaves,” but, disappointed in his “ endayvor fur to 


128 


IRISH WONDERS. 


stale away her varchew,” besieged the tower. Having taken 
the precaution to provide a good supply of heavy stones, the 
lady pelted her persecutors vigorously, 66 crackin’ their haythen 
shkulls the same as they wor egg-shells.” Her heroism was 
rewarded by her deliverance, for her lover, hearing of her 
desperate situation, came to her relief and attacked the be- 
siegers, so that “ wid the lady dingin’ shtones at the front o’ 
them, an’ the other fellys beltin’ ’em behind, they got discon- 
sarted as not knowin’ phat to do next, an’ so they up’s an’ 
runs like as tin thousand divils wor parshooin’ afther thim. 
So she was saved an’ brought down, an’ was married to the 
boy av her heart the next Sunday, Glory be to God, an’ that ’s 
the way the tower come to be built, an’ shows that thim that 
thries to marry a lady agin her will always comes to grief, fur 
av she cant bate thim wid her tongue she can some other way, 
fur a woman can always get phat she ’s afther, an’ bad luck 
to the lie that ’s in that.” 


THE POLICE. 



-r 


the last few years, 
the most obviously con- 
spicuous individual in Ire- 
land is the policeman. Go 
where you will, if the po- 
liceman is not there before 
you, the reason is prob- 
ably to be found in the 
fact that he has just been 
there and will likely return before 
you leave. In Dublin, Cork, Limer- 
ick, Athlone, Belfast, and other large cities and towns, the 
police are seen at every corner, singly, in pairs, and in groups. 
Fresh-looking police are going on duty; tired-out police are 
going home ; clean, well-brushed police are starting to the 
country on horseback, having heard reports of rural disturb- 
ance ; muddy police are coming in on jaunting-cars, with 
prisoners from the nearest eviction. Everywhere you meet 
them ; young policemen, with fresh, rosy complexions ; mid- 
dle-aged policemen, with stern faces, bearing strong evidence 
of Irish pugilistic talent ; old policemen, with deeply scarred 
and weather-beaten countenances, looking forward to speedy 
retirement and a moderate pension ; they are in the city, in 
the village, on the high road, in the by-way, and on the 
mountain paths. At every railroad station they are to be seen 
in pairs, observing those who arrive and depart, and noting 


130 


IRISH WONDERS. 


all that may seem suspicious in the appearance and actions of 
travellers. 

As long as a stranger remains on the common, well -fre- 
quented tourist routes he escapes with a sharp glance of in- 
spection, but let him leave the courses usually followed by 
travellers, or go into parts of the country not often visited by 
strangers, and he at once becomes an object of intense suspi- 
cion. You are driving along a retired country road; at the 
turn of the hill a policeman heaves in sight. He speaks plea- 
santly, and if nothing arouses his suspicion, he will pass on 
and you see him no more ; but if the slightest distrust of you 
or your business finds lodgment in his mind, he marks you as 
a possible victim. He temporarily vanishes ; look round as you 
proceed on your journey, and you may, by chance, catch a 
glimpse of him a mile or two away, peeping over a wall after 
you, but in the next village, where you stop for the night, he 
reappears, and the local policemen, after his coming, will be 
sure to observe you with some degree of attention. Leave 
your baggage in the public room of the inn and step out on 
the street. In comes the policeman, ascertains your name, 
takes a mental inventory of your effects, makes a note of the 
railway and hotel labels on your trunks, and goes a^ay to re- 
port. A sharp detective is the policeman even in the country 
districts. He knows articles of American manufacture at a 
glance, and needs only to see your satchel to tell whether it 
came from America or was made in England. Talk with him, 
and he will chat cordially about the weather, the crops, the 
state of the markets, but all the time he is trying to make out 
who you are and what is your business. His eyes ramble from 
your hat to your shoes, and by the time the conversation is 
ended, he has prepared for the u sargeant ” a report of your 
personal appearance and apparel. “ Hat, English ; coat, Lon- 


THE POLICE. 


131 


don-made ; trousers, doubtful ; shoes, American ; party evi- 
dently an Irish Yankee, who might as well be looked after.” 

The Irish policeman, or “ consthable,” as he is familiarly 
known on his native sod, is the son of a peasant. Finding life 
as a laborer or tenant in either case intolerable, he debated in 
his own mind the question whether he should emigrate to 
America, enlist in the British army, or apply for a place on 
the constabulary. The first step was, to him, the most accept- 
able, but he lacked the money to go ; of the two courses left 
open, enlistment in the army was the more pleasant, since in 
Ireland the constabulary are almost entirely cut off from as- 
sociation with the people in a social or friendly way, a general 
belief prevailing that the Irishman who enters the police 
has deserted the cause of his country and entered the -ser- 
vice of her deadliest foe. So the police are avoided by their 
former companions, shunned by old friends, and, lastly, what 
is of some consequence to a genuine Irishman, are given the 
cold shoulder by the ladies. To be sure, the Irishman who 
enlists in the British army would be treated in the same way 
at his old home, but as he usually leaves never to return, the 
case is materially different. Chance, or the obligation of sup- 
porting aged parents or a helpless family of young brothers 
and sisters, usually determines the question, and the young 
Irishman enters the constabulary, thenceforth to be a social 
leper, for the constable is hated by his countrymen with a 
hatred that knows no bounds. 

From the day he puts on his neat blue uniform and saucer- 
like cap, the constable, in the troubled west coast counties, 
carries his life in his hand. Every hedge he scrutinizes with 
a careful eye ; behind it may lurk an assassin. Every division 
wall is watched for suspicious indications, his alertness being 
quickened by the knowledge that he is guarding his own life. 


132 


IRISH WONDERS. 


He is compelled to undertake duties obnoxious to his own 
feelings and sense of justice, and to risk life and limb to carry 
out repugnant orders. A bad year comes, a tenant is in ar- 
rears and cannot pay rent ; the agent determines on an evic- 
tion and sends for the police. The constables arrive in force, 
but the tenant has anticipated them and collected a crowd of 


friends. The hut is closed and barred, while inside are half a 
score of men and women, determined to resist as long as re- 
sistance is of any avail. 

As soon as the police appear on the scene, a babel of Irish 
voices ensues and fearful curses and imprecations are hurled 
at all concerned in the eviction, succeeded by showers of 
stones from enthusiastic outside supporters of the cabin’s de- 



THE POLICE. 


133 


fenders. The constables draw their clubs and make a rush, 
striking right and left at the heads of the crowd. A desper- 
ate battle ensues, in which the police are generally victorious, 
driving the rabble to a safe distance ; then, leaving a portion 
of the force to keep them away, the remainder return to effect 
an entrance to the hut. A beam, handled by several pairs of 
strong arms, speedily demolishes the miserable pretence of a 
door, then in go the police, to be met with fists, clubs, stones, 
showers of boiling water, and other effective and offensive 
means of defence. After a stubborn contest the cabin is 
finally cleared ; the furniture, if there be any, is set out in the 
road, the thatched roof torn off and scattered on the ground, 
the walls levelled, and the police, battered with sticks and 
stones, scalded, burned, return to headquarters with their pris- 
oners. Not infrequently a policeman is killed on one of these 
evictionary expeditions, the defence of his slayers being gen- 
erally grounded on the statement made in court in one in- 
stance of this kind near Limerick. “ We niver intinded fur 
to kill him at all, but his shkull was too thin entirely for a 
consthable, an’ broke wid the batin’ he was afther gettin’.” 

Firearms are not often used in these encounters between 
the police and the populace, for such battles always take place 
in daylight, and although, when an eviction promises to be of 
more than usual danger, the police carry rifles, strict orders 
are given not to use them save in dire extremity, and a police- 
man will he beaten almost to death without resorting to the 
use of his gun. On ordinary day -duty the police carry 
only a short club or revolver, hidden under the coat ; hut at 
night, the country constables are armed with rifle and bayo- 
net, and patrol the roads in pairs, one walking on each side 
and as close as possible to the hedge or wall. 

But in spite of the extraordinary difficulties and unceasing 


134 


IRISH WONDERS. 


dangers of his work the constable does his duty with scrupu- 
lous exactness, and instances of treachery to the government 
among the Irish constabulary are extremely rare. Indeed, 
service in the constabulary is much sought for, and there are 
always more applicants than vacancies. The physical stand- 
ard is so high that the police are the picked men of the 
country, while the average grade of intelligence among them 
is better than among the peasantry from whose ranks they 
have come. 

Ready as they are to go cheerfully on any service, however 
laborious or perilous, there is one task which the constabulary 
of the west coast hold in mortal detestation, and that is, an 
expedition into the mountains to seize illicit stills and arrest 
distillers of poteen. Such an enterprise means days and 
nights of toilsome climbing, watching, waiting, and spying ; 
often without result, and generally with a strong probability 
that when the spot where the still has been is surrounded, the 
police thinking they have the law breakers in a trap, the lat- 
ter take the alarm, escape by some unknown path, leaving 
nothing but u the pot and the smell ” as reminiscences of 
their presence and employment. The disappointing nature of 
the duty is thus one good reason for the dislike felt for it by 
the constables, but another is found in the unusual degree of 
peril attending it, for in the mountains of Donegal, Mayo, 
Galway, Clare, and Kerry, the distillers generally own firearms, 
know how to use them, and feel no more compunction for 
shooting a policeman than for killing a dog. The extremely 
rugged character of the Mayo mountains, in particular, offers 
many opportunities for the outlaws to practise their craft in 
safety and secrecy, for, the whole neighborhood being on the 
lookout for the enemy, there are always friends to give the 
alarm. To hide the still in the ground or in a convenient 


THE POLICE. 


135 


cave is the work of very few minutes, after which the distil- 
lers are quite at leisure and turn their attention to shooting 
at the police, a job attended with so little risk to themselves 
and so much discomfort to the constables that the latter fre- 
quently give up the chase on very slight provocation. 

Near Lake Derry clare, in the Connemara district of Galway, 
and almost under the shadow of the Twelve Pins, there stands 
by the wayside a small rude monument of uncut stones, a mere 
heap, surmounted by a rough wooden cross. Such stone 
heaps as this are common on the west coast, and originate in 
the custom of making a family memorial, each member of the 
family, or, in some cases, each friend attending the funeral, 
contributing a stone to the rude monument. In some neigh- 
borhoods, every relative and friend casts a stone on the com- 
mon pile whenever he passes the spot, so the heap is constantly 
growing. This particular monument in Connemara does not 
differ in any important respect from many others, but before 
it, in the summer of 1886, there knelt, all day long, an old 
peasant woman. Every morning she came from a hut in the 
glen near by and spent every hour of daylight in prayer be- 
fore the wooden cross. It seemed to matter little to her 
whether it rained or the sun shone ; in sunshine, the hood of 
her tattered cloak was thrown back and her white hair ex- 
posed, while the rain compelled her to draw the hood forward, 
but rain or shine she was always there, her lips silently mov- 
ing as the beads slipped through her withered fingers, nor 
could any question divert her attention from her devotions. 
She never looked up, never took the slightest notice of re- 
marks addressed to her, nor was she ever heard to speak aloud. 
Once a week provisions were sent to her house from the 
nearest police station ; they were left within, and those who 
brought them went their way, for she gave them no word of 


136 


IRISH WONDERS. 


thanks, no look of gratitude; nor, for many years, had the 
constables sent with the allowance made her by the govern- 
ment ventured to compel her to speak to them. 

Her story was told by a Sergeant of Police, and formed a 
painful illustration of the poteen trade in the mountains. In 
the year 1850, while the country was still suffering from the 
effects of the “ starving time,” she lived with her husband, 
Michael O’Malley, and four sons, on a little farm near Lake 
Derry clare. Year after year had the crops failed, but the little 
family held together, faring, or rather starving, alike. In the 
year mentioned, although the country in general was beginning 
to recover from the famine, this part of Connemara was still 
stricken, and the crop seemed likely again to fail. Starvation 
stared the hapless family in the face. The boys were well 
grown lads, accustomed to the hard life of peasants, and will- 
ing to work if any could be found. All four left home, the 
eldest going to Galway, the other three to the sea-shore, where 
they found temporary employment in the fisheries. While so 
engaged, they learned the secrets of the illicit distiller, and 
having, in course of time, managed to procure a small still, 
they returned home with it, and as the cabin was in a se- 
cluded quarter of a little frequented district, they persuaded 
the old man to engage in the enterprise with them. The risk 
of detection appeared so small, especially when compared with 
the profits, that against the prayers and entreaties of the 
woman, the still was set up in a retired spot near by and the 
manufacture of the poteen begun in as large quantities as 
their limited resources would allow. A number of years 
passed, and, as their product found a ready sale in the neigh- 
borhood, the O’Malleys prospered as they had never done be- 
fore, the boys married, and families grew around them. 

The eldest brother, John O’Malley, having gone to Galway, 


THE POLICE. 


137 


succeeded, by what he considered a great stroke of good for- 
tune, in obtaining a place on the constabulary. The family 
at home knew nothing of him, nor had he communicated with 
them, for directly after his enlistment he was sent to the 
County Wexford on the opposite side of the island, and com- 
pletely lost sight of his old home. Proving intelligent and 
capable, he was promoted, made a sergeant, and ordered to 
the County Galway. Immediately upon his arrival at his new 
post, a small village in Connemara, intelligence was brought 
of illicit distilling near the Twelve Pins, and O’Malley was 
ordered to proceed with a strong party of police to seize the 
still, and, if possible, arrest the criminals. The names of the 
offenders were not given, but the location of the glen where 
operations were carried on was described with such exactness 
that O’Malley, who knew every foot of ground in the vicinity, 
laid such plans as to render escape by the distillers a practical 
impossibility. Before dark one evening a party of twelve 
mounted constables armed with rifles started from Maume, at 
the head of Lough Corrib, travelled all night, and by morn- 
ing Sergeant O’Malley had so posted his men round the glen 
that the arrest of the distillers was apparently a certainty. In 
the early dawn, before objects could be distinctly seen, several 
men were observed going into the glen, and, at a given signal, 
the police closed in on the little shanty where the still was in 
operation. A desperate fight ensued, and Sergeant O’Malley 
was shot dead by one of his brothers without knowing whose 
hand pointed the weapon. Two of the O’Malleys were killed 
by the police bullets, and a constable was mortally wounded. 
Michael and his remaining son were taken alive, afterwards 
tried for murder, when for the first time they learned that the 
dead Sergeant was their relative. Both were hanged, the sin- 
gular circumstances of the crime for which they suffered at- 
tracting wide attention. 


138 


IRISH WONDERS. 


Mrs. O’Malley thus beheld herself, at a single blow, de- 
prived of husband and four sons. For a time she was wildly 
demented, but the violence passed away, and as her clouded 
brain became calm, it was occupied by one idea, to the exclu- 
sion of all others, — prayer for the repose of her dead. The 
body of the Sergeant was buried near Maume, but O’Malley 
and his three sons were buried together under the cairn in a 
long disused churchyard through which the road passed, a 
churchyard like thousands more in Ireland, where the grave- 
stones are hidden by the nettles and weeds. Thither, with a 
love stronger than death, goes the poor old woman every day, 
and, untiring in her devotion, spends her life reciting the 
prayers for the dead. 



THE LEPRECHAWN. 


VERY mythology has its good and evil 
spirits which are objects of adoration 
and subjects of terror, and often both 
classes are worshipped from opposite 
motives ; the good, that the worship- 
per may receive benefit ; the evil, 
that he may escape harm. Some- 

times good deities are so benevolent 
that they are neglected, superstitious 
fear directing all devotion towards 

the evil spirits to propitiate them and avert the calamities 
they are ever ready to bring upon the human race ; some- 
times the malevolent deities have so little power that the 

prayer of the pious is offered up to the good spirits that they 

may pour out still further favors, for man is a worshipping 
being, and will prostrate himself with equal fervor before the 
altar whether the deity be good or bad. 

Midway, however, between the good and evil beings of all 
mythologies there is often one whose qualities are mixed ; not 
wholly good nor entirely evil, but balanced between the two, 
sometimes doing a generous action, then descending to a 
petty meanness, but never rising to nobility of character nor 
sinking to the depths of depravity; good from whim, and 
mischievous from caprice. 

Such a being is the Leprechawn of Ireland, a relic of the 
pagan mythology of that country. By birth the Leprechawn 



140 


IRISH WONDERS. 


is of low descent, his father being an evil spirit and his 
mother a degenerate fairy ; by nature he is a mischief-maker, 
the Puck of the Emerald Isle. He is of diminutive size, 
about three feet high, and is dressed in a little red jacket or 
roundabout, with red breeches buckled at the knee, gray or 
black stockings, and a hat, cocked in the style of a century 
ago, over a little, old, withered face. Round his neck is an 
Elizabethan ruff, and frills of lace are at his wrists. On the 
wild west coast, where the Atlantic winds bring almost con- 
stant rains, he dispenses with ruff and frills and wears a frieze 
overcoat over his pretty red suit, so that, unless on the look- 
out for the cocked hat, “ ye might pass a Leprechawn on the 
road and never know it ’s himself that ’s in it at all.” 

In Clare and Galway, the favorite amusement of the Lepre- • 
chawn is riding a sheep or goat, or even a dog, when the 
other animals are not available, and if the sheep look weary 
in the morning or the dog is muddy and worn out with fa- 
tigue, the peasant understands that the local Leprechawn has 
been going on some errand that lay at a greater distance than 
he cared to travel on foot. Aside from riding the sheep and 
dogs almost to death, the Leprechawn is credited with much 
small mischief about the house. Sometimes he will make the 
pot boil over and put out the fire, then again he will make it 
impossible for the pot to boil at all. He will steal the bacon- 
flitch, or empty the potato-kish, or fling the baby down on 
the floor, or occasionally will throw the few poor articles of 
furniture about the room with a strength and vigor altogether 
disproportioned to his diminutive size. But his mischievous 
pranks seldom go further than to drink up all the milk or de- 
spoil the proprietor’s bottle of its poteen, sometimes, in spor- 
tiveness, filling the bottle with water, or, when very angry, 
leading the fire up to the thatch, and then startling the in- 


THE LEPRECHAWN. 


141 


mates of the cabin with his laugh as they rise, frightened, to 
put out the flames. 

To offset these troublesome attributes, the Leprechawn is 
very domestic, and sometimes attaches himself to a family, al- 
ways of the 66 rale owld slitock,” accompanying its representa- 
tives from the castle to the cabin and never deserting them un- 
less driven away by some act of insolence or negligence, “ for, 
though he likes good atin’, he wants phat he gets to come wid 
an open hand, an’ J ud laver take the half av a pratee that ’s 
freely given than the whole av a quail that ’s begrudged him.” 
But what he eats must be specially intended for him, an in- 
stance being cited by a Clare peasant of a Leprechawn that 
deserted an Irish family, because, on one occasion, the dog 
having left a portion of his food, it was set by for the Lepre- 
chawn. u Jakers, ’t was as mad as a little wasp he was, an’ all 
that night they heard him workin’ away in the cellar as busy 
as a nailer, an’ a sound like a catheract av wather goin’ wid- 
out saycin\ In the mornin’ they wint to see phat he ’d been 
at, but he was gone, an’ whin they come to thry for the wine, 
bad loock to the dhrop he ’d left, but all was gone from ivery 
cask an’ bottle, and they were filled wid say-wather, beways av 
rayvinge o’ phat they done him.” 

In different country districts the Leprechawn has different 
names. In the northern counties he is the Logheryman ; in 
Tipperary, he is the Lurigadawne ; in Kerry, the Luricawne ; 
in Monaghan, the Cluricawne. The dress also varies. The 
Logheryman wears the uniform of some British infantry regi- 
ments, a red coat and white breeches, but instead of a cap, he 
wears a broad-brimmed, high, pointed hat, and after doing 
some trick more than usually mischievous, his favorite posi- 
tion is to poise himself on the extreme point of his hat, stand- 
ing at the top of a wall or on a house, feet in the air, then 


142 


IRISH WONDERS. 


laugh heartily ^and disappear. The Lurigadawne wears an an- 
tique slashed jacket of red, with peaks all round and a jockey 
cap, also sporting a sword, which he uses as a magic wand. 
The Luricawne is a fat, pursy little fellow whose jolly round 
face rivals in redness the cut-a-way jacket he wears, that al- 
ways has seven rows of seven buttons in each row, though 
what use they are has never been determined, since his jacket 
is never buttoned, nor, indeed, can it be, but falls away from 
a shirt invariably white as the snow. When in full dress he 
wears a helmet several sizes too large for him, but, in general, 
prudently discards this article of headgear "as having a ten- 
dency to render him conspicuous in a country where helmets 
are obsolete, and wraps his head in a handkerchief that he 
ties over his ears. 

The Cluricawne of Monaghan is a little dandy, being gor- 
geously arrayed in a swallow-tailed evening coat of red with 
green vest, white breeches, black stockings, and shoes that 
“ fur the shine av ’em ’ud shame a lookin’ -glass.” His hat is 
a long cone without a brim, and is usually set jauntily on one 
side of his curly head. When greatly provoked, he will some- 
times take vengeance by suddenly ducking and poking the 
sharp point of his hat into the eye of the offender. Such 
conduct is, however, exceptional, as he commonly contents 
himself with soundly abusing those at whom he has taken of- 
fence, the objects of his anger hearing his voice but seeing 
nothing of his person. 

One of the most marked peculiarities of the Leprechawn 
family is their intense hatred of schools and schoolmasters, 
arising, perhaps, from the ridicule of them by teachers, who 
affect to disbelieve in the existence of the Leprechawn and 
thus insult him, for “ it ’s very well beknownst, that onless ye 
belave in him an’ thrate him well, he ’ll lave an’ come back 


THE LEPRECHAWN. 


143 


no more.” He does not even like to remain in the neighbor- 
hood where a national school has been established, and as such 
schools are now numerous in Ireland, the Leprechawns are 
becoming scarce. “ Wan gineration of taichers is enough for 
thim, bekase the families where the little fellys live forgit to 
set thim out the bit an’ sup, an’ so they lave.” The few that 
remain must have a hard time keeping soul and body together 
for nowhere do they now receive any attention at meal-times, 
nor is the anxiety to see one by any means so great as in the 
childhood of men still living. Then, to catch a Leprechawn 
was certain fortune to him who had the wit to hold the mis- 
chief-maker a captive until demands for wealth were complied 
with. 

“ Mind ye,” said a Kerry peasant, “ the onliest time ye can 
ketch the little vagabone is whin he ’s settin’ down, an’ he 
niver sets down axceptin’ whin his brogues want mendin’. 
He runs about so much he wears thim out, an’ whin he 
feels his feet on the ground, down he sets undher a hidge 
or behind a wall, or in the grass, an’ takes thim aff an’ mends 
thim. Thin comes you by, as quiet as a cat an’ sees him 
there, that ye can aisily, be his red coat, an’ you shlippin’ up 
on him, catches him in yer arrums. 

“ ‘ Give up yer goold,’ says you. 

“ ‘ Begob, I ’ve no goold,’ says he. 

“ ‘ Then outs wid yer magic purse,’ says you. 

“ But it ’s like pullin’ a hat full av taith to get aither purse 
or goold av him. He ’s got goold be the ton, an’ can tell ye 
where ye can put yer finger on it, but he wont, till ye make 
him, an’ that ye must do be no aisey manes. Some cuts aff 
his wind be chokin’ him, an’ some bates him, but don’t for the 
life o’ ye take yer eyes aff him, fur if ye do, he ’s aff like a 
flash an’ the same man niver sees him agin, an’ that ’s how it 
was wid Michael O’Dougherty. 


144 


IRISH WONDERS. 


u He was afther lookin’ for wan nigh a year, fur lie wanted 
to get married an’ had n’t anny money, so he thought the 
aisiest was to ketch a Luricawne. So he was lookin’ an’ 
watchin’ an’ the fellys makin’ fun av him all the time. Wan 
night he was cornin’ back afore day from a wake he ’d been 
at, an’ on the way home he laid undher the hidge an’ shlept 
awhile, thin riz an’ walked on. So as he was walkin’, he seen 
a Luricawne in the grass be the road a-mendin’ his brogues. 
So he shlipped up an’ got him fast enough, an’ thin made him 
tell him where was his goold. The Luricawne tuk him to 
nigh the place in the break o’ the hills an’ was goin’ fur to 
show him, when all at wanst Mike heard the most outprobri- 
ous scraich over the head av him that ’ud make the hairs av 
ye shtand up like a mad cat’s tail. 

“ 6 The saints defind me,’ says he, t phat ’s that ? ’ an’ he 
looked up from the Luricawne that he was can-yin’ in his 
arrums. That minnit the little attomy wint out av his sight, 
fur he looked away from it an’ it was gone, but he heard it 
laugh when it wint an’ he niver got the goold but died poor, 
as me father knows, an’ he a boy when it happened.” 

Although the Leprechawns are skilful in evading curious 
eyes, and, when taken, are shrewd in escaping from their cap- 
tors, their tricks are sometimes all in vain, and after resorting 
to every device in their power, they are occasionally compelled 
to yield up their hidden stores, one instance of which was nar- 
rated by a Galway peasant. 

“ It was Paddy Donnelly av Connemara. He was always 
hard at work as far as anny wan seen, an’ bad luck to the day 
he ’d miss, barrin’ Sundays. When all ’ud go to the fair, 
sorra a fut he ’d shtir to go near it, no more did a dhrop av 
dhrink crass his lips. When they ’d ax him why he did n’t 
take divarshun, he ’d laugh an’ tell thim his field was divar- 


THE LEPRECHAWN. 


145 


shun enough fur him, an’ by an’ by he got rich, so they 
knewn that when they were at the fair or wakes or shports, it 
was lookin’ fur a Leprechawn he was an’ not workin’, an’ he 
got wan too, fur how else cud he get rich at all.” 

And so it must have been, in spite of the denials of 
Paddy Donnelly, though, to do him justice, he stoutly af- 
firmed that his small property was acquired by industry, econ- 
omy, and temperance. But according to the opinions of his 
neighbors, “ bad scran to him ’t was as greedy as a pig he 
was, fur he knewn where the goold was, an’ wanted it all 
fur himself, an’ so lied about it like the Leprechawns, that ’s 
known to be the biggest liars in the world.” 

The Leprechawn is an old bachelor elf who successfully 
resists all efforts of scheming fairy mammas to marry him to 
young and beautiful fairies, persisting in single blessedness 
even in exile from his kind, being driven off as a punishment 
for his heterodoxy on matrimonial subjects. This is one ex- 
planation of the fact that Leprechawns are always seen alone, 
though other authorities make the Leprechawn solitary by 
preference, he having learned the hollowness of fairy friend- 
ship and the deceitfulness of fairy femininity, and left the so- 
ciety of his kind in disgust at its lack of sincerity. 

It must be admitted that the latter explanation seems the 
more reasonable, since whenever the Leprechawn has been 
captured and forced to engage in conversation with his captor 
he displayed conversational powers that showed an ability to 
please, and as woman kind, even among fairy circles, are, ac- 
cording to an Irish proverb, “ aisily caught be an oily tongue,” 
the presumption is against the expulsion of the Leprechawn 
and in favor of his voluntary retirement. 

However this may be, one thing is certain to the minds of 
all wise women and fairy-men, that he is the “ thrickiest little 


146 


IRISH WONDERS. 


divil that iver wore a brogue/’ whereof abundant proof is 
given. There was Tim O’Donovan, of Kerry, who captured a 
Leprechawn and forced him to disclose the spot where the 
“ pot o’ goold ” was concealed. Tim was going to make the 
little rogue dig up the money for him, but, on the Lepre- 
chawn advancing the plea that he had no spade, released him, 
marking the spot by driving a stick into the ground and plac- 
ing his hat on it. Returning the next morning with a spade, 



the spot pointed out by the “ little ottomy av a desaver ” be- 
ing in the centre of a large bog, he found, to his unutterable 
disgust, that the Leprechawn was too smart for him, for in 
every direction innumerable sticks rose out of the bog, each 
bearing aloft an old “ caubeen ” so closely resembling his own 
that poor Tim, after long search, was forced to admit himself 
baffled and give up the gold that, on the evening before, had 


THE LEPRECHAWN. 


147 


been fairly within his grasp, if “ he ’cl only had the brains in 
his shkull to make the Leprechawn dig it for him, shpade or 
no shpade.” 

Even when caught, therefore, the captor must outwit the 
captive, and the wily little rascal, having a thousand devices, 
generally gets away without giving up a penny, and some- 
times succeeds in bringing the eager fortune-hunter to grief, 
a notable instance of which was the case of Dennis O’Bryan, 
of Tipperary, as narrated by an old woman of Crusheen. 

“ It ’s well beknownst that the Leprechawn has a purse 
that ’s got the charmed shillin’. Only wan shillin’, but the 
wondher av the purse is this : No matther how often ye take 
out a shillin’ from it, the purse is niver empty at all, but whin 
ye put yer finger in agin, ye always find wan there, fur the 
purse fills up when ye take wan from it, so ye may shtand all 
day countin’ out the shillin’s an’ they cornin’, that ’s a thrick 
av the good peoples an’ be magic. 

66 Now Dinnis was a young blaggard that was always af- 
ther peepin’ about undher the hidge fur to ketch a Lepre- 
chawn, though they do say that thim that does n’t sarch af- 
ther thim sees thim oftener than thim that does, but Dinnis 
made his mind up that if there was wan in the counthry, he ’d 
have him, fur he hated work worse than sin, an’ did be settin’ 
in a shebeen day in an’ out till you ’d think he ’d grow on the 
sate. So wan day he was cornin’ home, an’ he seen something 
red over in the corner o’ the field, an’ in he goes, as quiet as 
a mouse, an’ up on the Leprechawn an’ grips him be the collar 
an’ down’s him on the ground. 

“ ‘ Arrah, now, ye ugly little vagabone,’ says he, 6 1 ’ve got 
ye at last. Now give up yer goold, or by jakers I ’ll choke 
the life out av yer pin-squazin’ carkidge, ye owld cobbler, 
ye,’ says he, shakin’ him fit to make his head dhrop aff. 


148 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ The Leprechawn begged, and scritched, an’ cried, an’ 
said he was n’t a rale Leprechawn that was in it, but a young 
wan that had n’t anny goold, but Dinnis would n’t let go av 
him, an’ at last the Leprechawn said he ’d take him to the 
pot ov goold that was hid be the say, in a glen in Clare. 
Dinnis did n’t want to go so far, bein’ afeared the Lepre- 
chawn ’ud get away, an’ he thought the divilish baste was 
afther lyin’ to him, bekase he knewn there was goold closter 
than that, an’ so he was chokin’ him that his eyes stood out 
till ye cud knock ’em aff wid a shtick, an’ the Leprechawn 
axed him would he lave go if he ’d give him the magic purse. 
Dinnis thought he ’d betther do it, fur he was mortially afeared 
the oudacious little villin ’ud do him some thrick an’ get away, 
so he tuk the purse, afther lookin’ at it to make sure it was 
red shilk, an’ had the shillin’ in it, but the minnit he tuk his 
two eyes aff the Leprechawn, away wint the rogue wid a 
laugh that Dinnis did n’t like at all. 

“ But he was feelin’ very comfortable be razon av gettin’ 
the purse, an’ says to himself, ‘ Begorra, ’t is mesilf that ’ll 
ate the full av me waistband fur wan time, an’ dhrink till a 
stame-ingine can’t squaze wan dhrop more down me neck,’ 
says he, and aff he goes like a quarther-horse fur Miss Cloo- 
ney’s sheebeen, that ’s where he used fur to go. In he goes, 
an’ there was Paddy Grogan, an’ Tim O’Donovan, an’ Mike 
Conathey, an’ Bryan Flaherty, an’ a shtring more av ’em settin’ 
on the table, an’ he pulls up a sate an’ down he sets, a-callin’ 
to Miss Clooney to bring her best. 

“ 6 Where ’s yer money ? ’ says she to him, fur he did n’t 
use to have none barrin’ a tuppence or so. 

u c Do you have no fear,’ says he, ‘ fur the money,’ says he, 
* ye pinny - schrapin’ owld shkeleton,’ this was beways av a 
shot at her, fur it was the size av a load o’ hay she was, an’ 


THE LEPRECHAWN. 


149 


weighed a ton. ‘ Do you bring yer best/ says he. ‘ I ’m a 
gintleman av forchune, bad loock to the job o’ work I ’ll do 
till the life laves me. Come, jintlemin, dhrink at my axpinse.’ 
An’ so they did an’ more than wanst, an’ afther four or five 
guns apace, Dinnis ordhered dinner fur thim all, but Miss 
Clooney towld him sorra the bit or sup more ’ud crass the lips 
av him till he paid fur that he had. So out he pulls the ma- 
gic purse fur to pay, an’ to show it thim an’ towld thim phat 
it was an’ where he got it. 

66 i And was it the Leprechawn gev it ye ? ’ says they. 

u ‘ It was/ says Dinnis, ‘ an’ the varchew av this purse is 
sich, that if ye take shillin’ s out av it be the handful all day 
long, they ’ll be cornin’ in a shtrame like whishkey out av a 
jug/ says he, pullin’ out wan. 

“ And thin, me jewel, he put in his fingers afther another, 
but it was n’t there, for the Leprechawn made a ijit av him, 
an’ instid o’ givin’ him the right purse, gev him wan just like 
it, so as onless ye looked dost, ye cud n’t make out the differ 
betune thim. But the face on Dinnis was a holy show when 
he seen the Leprechawn had done him, an’ he wid only a 
shillin’, an’ half a crown av dhrink down the troats av thim. 

“ ‘ To the divil wid you an’ yer Leprechawns, an’ purses, 
an’ magic shillin’s,’ schreamed Miss Clooney, belavin , an small 
blame to her that ’s, that it was lyin’ to her he was. ‘ Ye ’re 
a thafe, so ye are, dhrinkin’ up me dhrink, wid a lie on yer 
lips about the purse, an’ insultin’ me into the bargain, says 
she, thinkin’ how he called her a shkeleton, an her a load fur 
a waggin. * Yer impidince bates owld Nick, so it does,’ says 
she ; so she up an’ hits him a power av a crack on the head 
wid a bottle ; an’ the other felly’s, a-thinkin’ sure that it was 
a lie he was afther tellin’ them, an’ he laving thim to pay fur 
the dhrink he ’d had, got on him an’ belted him out av the 


150 


IRISH WONDERS. 


face till it was nigh onto dead he was. Then a consthable 
comes along an’ hears the phillaloo they did be makin’ an’ 
comes in. 

u e Tatther an’ agers,’ says he, * lave aff. I command the 
pace. Phat ’s the matther here ? ’ 

“ So they towld him an’ he consayved that Dinnis shtole 
the purse an’ tuk him be the collar. 

“ 6 Lave go,’ says Dinnis. £ Sure phat ’s the harrum o’ get- 
ting the purse av a Leprechawn ? ’ 

“ ‘ None at all,’ says the polisman, ‘ av ye projuice the Lep- 
rechawn an’ make him teshtify he gev it ye an’ that ye have 
n’t been burglarious an’ sarcumvinted another man’s money,’ 
says he. 

“ But Dinnis cud n’t do it, so the cunsthable tumbled him 
into the jail. From that he wint to coort an’ got thirty days 
at hard labor, that he niver done in his life afore, an’ afther 
he got out, he said he ’d left lookin’ for Leprechawns, fur 
they were too shmart fur him entirely, an’ it ’s thrue fur him, 
bekase I belave they were.” 



THE HENPECKED GIANT. 


g\ locality of Ireland is fuller of strange 
bits of fanciful legend than the 
neighborhood of the Giant’s 
Causeway. For miles along the 
coast the geological strata resem- 
ble that of the Causeway, and 
the gradual disintegration of the 
stone has wrought many peculiar 
and picturesque effects among the 
basaltic pillars, while each natural 
novelty has woven round it a tis- 
sue of traditions and legends, some appropriate, others forced, 
others ridiculous misapplications of commonplace tales. Here, 
a long straight row of columns is known as the “ Giant’s Or- 
gan,” and tradition pictures the scene when the giants of old, 
with their gigantic families, sat on the Causeway and listened 
to the music ; there, a group of isolated pillars is called the 
“ Giant’s Chimneys,” since they once furnished an exit for the 
smoke of the gigantic kitchen. A solitary pillar, surrounded 
by the crumbling remains of others, bears a distant resem- 
blance to a seated female figure, the “ Giant’s Bride,” who slew 
her husband and attempted to flee, but was overtaken by the 
power of a magician, who changed her into stone as she was 
seated by the shore, waiting for the boat that was to carry 
her away. Further on, a cluster of columns forms the 
“ Giant’s Pulpit,” where a presumably outspoken gigantic 



152 


IRISH WONDERS. 


preacher denounced the sins of a gigantic audience. The 
Causeway itself, according to legend, formerly extended to 
Scotland, being originally constructed by Finn Maccool and 
his friends, this notable giant having invited Benandoner, a 
Scotch giant of much celebrity, to come over and fight him. 
The invitation was accepted, and Maccool, out of politeness, 
built the Causeway the whole distance, the big Scotchman 
thus walking over dryshod to receive his beating. 

Some distance from the mainland is found the Ladies’ Wish- 
ing Chair, composed of blocks in the Great Causeway, wishes 
made while seated here being certain of realization. To the 
west of the Wishing Chair a solitary pillar rises from the sea, 
the u Gray Man’s Love.” Look to the mainland, and the 
mountain presents a deep, narrow cleft, with perpendicular 
sides, the “ Gray Man’s Path.” Out in the sea, but unfortu- 
nately not often in sight, is the 66 Gray Man’s Isle,” at present 
inhabited only by the Gray Man himself. As the island, 
however, appears but once in seventeen years, and the Gray 
Man is never seen save on the eve of some awful calamity, 
visitors to the Causeway have a very slight chance of seeing 
either island or man. There can be no doubt though of the 
existence of both, for everybody knows he was one of the 
greatest of the giants during his natural lifetime, nor could 
any better evidence be asked than the facts that his sweet- 
heart, turned into stone, still stands in sight of the Cause- 
way; the precipice, from which she flung herself into the 
sea, is still known by the name of the “ Lovers’ Leap ; ” and 
the path he made through the mountain is still used by him 
when he leaves his island and comes on shore. 

It is not surprising that so important a personage as the 
Gray Man should be the central figure of many legends, and 
indeed over him the story-makers seem to have had vigorous 


THE HENPECKED GIANT. 


153 


competition, for thirty or forty narratives are current in the 
neighborhood concerning him and the principal events of his 
life. So great a collection of legendary lore on one topic 
rendered the choice of a single tradition which should fairly 
cover the subject a matter of no little difficulty . As sometimes 
happens in grave undertakings, the issue was determined by 
accident. A chance boat excursion led to the acquaintance of 
Mr. Barney O’Toole, a fisherman, and conversation developed 
the fact that this gentleman was thoroughly posted in the lo- 
cal legends, and was also the possessor of a critical faculty 
which enabled him to differentiate between the probable and 
the improbable, and thus to settle the historical value of a tra- 
dition. In his way, he was also a philosopher, having evi- 
dently given much thought to social issues, and expressing his 
conclusions thereupon with the ease and freedom of a master 
mind. 

Upon being informed of the variety and amount of legen- 
dary material collected about the Gray Man and his doings, 
Barney unhesitatingly pronounced the entire assortment 
worthless, and condemned all the gathered treasures as the 
creations of petty intellects, which could not get out of the 
beaten track, but sought in the supernatural a reason for and 
explanation of every fact that seemed at variance with the 
routine of daily experience. In his opinion, the Gray Man is 
never seen at all in our day and generation, having been gath- 
ered to his fathers ages ago ; nor is there any enchanted isl- 
and ; to use his own language, u all thim shtories bein’ made 
be thim blaggard guides that set up av a night shtringin’ out 
laigends for to enthertain the quol’ty.” 

“ Now, av yer Anner wants to hear it, I can tell ye the 
thrue shtory av the Gray Man, no more is there anny thing 
wondherful in it, but it ’s just as I had it from me grandfather, 
that towld it to the childher for to entertain thim. 


154 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ It ’s very well beknownst that in thim owld days there 
were gionts in plinty hereabouts, but they did n’t make the 
Causeway at all, for that ’s a work o’ nacher, axceptin’ the 
Gray Man’s Path, that I ’m goin’ to tell ye av. But ivery 
wan knows that there were gionts, bekase if there was n’t, 
how cud we know o’ thim at all, but wan thing’s sartain, 
they were just like us, axceptin’ in the matther o’ size, for 
wan ov thim ’ud make a dozen like the men that live now. 

“ Among the gionts that lived about the Causeway there 
was wan, a young giont named Finn O’Goolighan, that was 
the biggest av his kind, an’ none o’ thim cud hide in a kish. 
So Finn, for the size av him, was a livin’ terror. His little 
finger was the size av yer Anner’s arrum, an’ his wrist as big 
as yer leg, an’ so he wint, bigger an’ bigger. Whin he 
walked he carried an oak-tree for a shtick, ye cud crawl into 
wan av his shoes, an’ his caubeen ’ud cover a boat. But he 
was a good-humored young felly wid a laugh that ’ud deefen 
ye, an’ a plazin’ word for all he met, so as if ye run acrass him 
in the road, he ’d give ye ‘ good morrow kindly,’ so as ye ’d 
feel the betther av it all day. He ’d work an’ he ’d play an’ 
do aither wid all the might that was in him. Av a week day 
you ’d see him in the field or on the shore from sun to sun as 
busy as a hen wid a dozen chicks ; an’ av a fair-day or av a 
Sunday, there he ’d be, palatherin’ at the girls, an’ dancin’ jigs 
that he done wid extrame nateness, or havin’ a bout wid a 
shtick on some other felly’s head, an’ indade, at that he was 
so clever that it was a delight for to see him, for he ’d crack 
a giont’s shkull that was as hard as a pot wid wan blow an’ all 
the pleasure in life. So he got to be four or five an’ twinty 
an’ not his betther in the County Antrim. 

“Wan fine day, his father, Bryan O’Goolighan, that was 
as big a giont as himself, says to him, says he, ‘ Finn, me 
Laddybuck, I ’m thinkin’ ye ’ll want to be gettin’ marr’d.’ 


THE HENPECKED GIANT. 


155 


“ ‘ Not me/ says Finn. 

“ 6 An’ why not ? ’ says his father. 

“ 6 1 ’ve no consate av it/ says Finn. 

u 6 Ye ’d be the betther av it/ says his father. 

“ ‘ Faix, I ’m not sure o’ that/ says Finn ; 6 gettin’ marr’d 
is like turnin’ a corner, ye don’t know phat ye ’re goin’ to see/ 
says he. 

“ ‘ Thrue for ye/ says owld Bryan, for he ’d had axpayri- 
ence himself, ‘ but if ye ’d a purty woman to make the stir- 
about for ye av a mornin’ wid her own white hands, an’ to 
watch out o’ the dure for ye in the avenin/ an’ put on a sod 
o’ turf whin she sees ye cornin’, ye ’d be a betther man/ says 
he. 

“ ‘ Bedad, it ’s not aisey for to conthravene that same/ 
says Finn, 6 barrin’ I might n’t git wan like that. Wimmin 
is like angels/ says he. ( There ’s two kinds av ’em, an’ the 
wan that shmiles like a dhrame o’ heaven afore she ’s marr’d, 
is the wan that gits to be a tarin’ divil afther her market ’s 
made an’ she ’s got a husband.’ 

“ Ye see Finn was a mighty smart young felly, if he was 
a giont, hut his father did n’t give up hope av gettin’ him 
marr’d, for owld folks that ’s been through a dale o’ throuble 
that-a-way always thries to get the young wans into the same 
thrap, beways, says they, av taichin’ thim to larn something. 
But Bryan was a wise owld giont, an’ knewn, as the Bible 
says, there ’s time enough for all things. So he quit him, an’ 
that night he spake wid the owld woman an’ left it wid her, 
as knowin’ that whin it ’s a matther o’ marryin’, a woman is 
more knowledgable an’ can do more to bring on that sort o’ 
mis’ry in wan day than a man can in all the years God gives 
him. 

“ Now, in ordher that ye see the pint, I ’m undher the need- 


156 


IRISH WONDERS. 


cessity av axplainin’ to yer Anner that Finn did n’t be no manes 
have the hathred at wimmin that he purtinded, for indade he 
liked thim purty well, but he thought he undhershtood thim 
well enough to know that the more ye talk swate to thim, the 
more they don’t like it, barrin’ they ’re fools, that sometimes 
happens. So whin he talked wid ’em or about thim, he spake 
o’ thim shuperskillious, lettin’ on to despize the lasht wan o’ 
thim, that was a takin’ way he had, for wimmin love thimselves 
a dale betther than ye ’d think, unless yer Anner ’s marr’d an’ 
knows, an’ that Finn knew, so he always said o’ thim the 
manest things he cud get out av his head, an’ that made thim 
think av him, that was phat he wanted. They purtinded to 
hate him for it, but he did n’t mind that, for he knewn it was 
only talk, an’ there was n’t wan o’ thim that would n’t give 
the lasht tooth out av her jaw to have him for a husband. 

“ W ell, as I was sayin’, afther owld Bryan give Finn up, 
his mother tuk him in hand, throwin’ a hint at him wanst in 
a while, sighin’ to him how glad she ’d be to have a young 
lady giont for a dawther, an’ dhroppin’ a word about phat an 
iligant girl Burthey O’Ghallaghy was, that was the dawther 
av wan o’ the naburs, that she got Finn, unbeknownst to him- 
self, to be thinkin’ about Burthey. She was a fine young lady 
giont, about tin feet high, as broad as a cassel dure, but she 
was good size for Finn, as ye know be phat I said av him. 
So when Finn’s mother see him takin’ her home from church 
afther benediction, an’ the nabers towld her how they obsarved 
him lanin’ on O’Ghallaghy’s wall an’ Burthey lightin’ his 
pipe wid a coal, she thought to herself, ‘ fair an’ aisey goes 
far in a day,’ an’ made her mind up that Finn ’ud marry Bur- 
they. An’ so, belike, he ’d a’ done, if he had n’t gone over, 
wan onlucky day, to the village beyant, where the common 
people like you an’ me lived. 


THE HENPECKED GIANT. 


157 


“ When he got there, in he wint to the inn to get him- his 
dhrink, for it ’s a mishtake to think that thim gionts were all 
blood-suckin’ blaggards as the Causeway guides say, but, bar- 
rin’ they were in dhrink, were as paceable as rabbits. So when 
Finn wint in, he says, 6 God save ye/ to thim setting an’ gev 
the table a big crack wid his shillaylah as for to say he wanted 
his glass. But instead o’ the owld granny that used for to 
fetch him his potheen, out shteps a nate little woman wid 
hair an’ eyes as black as a crow an’ two lips on her as red as a 
cherry an’ a quick sharp way like a cat in a hurry. 

“ ‘ An’ who are you, me Dear ? ’ says Finn, lookin’ up. 

“ 6 1 ’m the new barmaid, Sorr, av it ’s plazin’ to ye/ 
says she, makin’ a curchey, an’ lookin’ shtrait in his face. 

“ ‘ It is plazin’/ says Finn. ‘ ’T is I that ’s glad to be 
sarved be wan like you. Only/ says he, ‘ I know be the look 
o’ yer eye ye ’ve a timper.’ 

“ ‘ Dade I have/ says she, talkin’ back at him, ‘ an’ ye ’d 
betther not wake it.’ 

“ Finn had more to say an’ so did she, that I won’t throuble 
yer Anner wid, but when he got his fill av dhrink an’ said all 
he ’d in his head, an’ she kep’ aven wid him at ivery pint, he 
wint away mightily plazed. The next Sunday but wan he was 
back agin, an’ the Sunday afther, an’ afther that agin. By 
an’ by, he ’d come over in the avenin’ afther the work was 
done, an’ lane on the bar or set on the table, talkin’ wid the 
barmaid, for she was as sharp as a thornbush, an’ sorra a 
word Finn ’ud say to her in impidince or anny other way, but 
she ’d give him his answer afore he cud get his mouth shut. 

“ Now, be this time, Finn’s mother had made up her mind 
that Finn ’ud marry Burthey, an’ so she sent for the match- 
maker, an’ they talked it all over, an’ Finn’s father seen Bur- 
they ’s father, an’ they settled phat Burthey ’ud get an’ phat 


158 


IRISH WONDERS. 


Finn was to have, an’ were come to an agraymint about the 
match, onbeknownst to Finn, bekase it was in thim days like 
it is now, the matches bein’ made be the owld people, an’ all 
the young wans did was to go an’ be marr’d an’ make the 
best av it. Afther all, maybe that ’s as good a way as anny, 
for whin ye ’ve got all the throuble on yer back ye can stag- 
ger undher, there ’s not a haporth o’ differ whether ye got un- 
dher it yerself or whether it was put on ye, an’ so it is wid 
gettin’ marr’d, at laste so I ’m towld. 

“ Annyhow, Finn’s mother was busy wid preparin’ for the 
weddin’ whin she heard how Finn was afther puttin’ in his 
time at the village. 

“ 6 Sure that won’t do,’ she says to herself ; 6 he ought to 
know betther than to be spendin’ ivery rap he ’s got in dhrink 
an’ gostherin’ at that black-eyed huzzy, an’ he to be marr’d 
to the best girl in the county.’ So that night, when Finn 
come in, she spake fair an’ soft to him that he ’d give up goin’ 
to the inn, an’ get ready for to be marr’d at wanst. An’ that 
did well enough till she got to the marry in’, when Finn riz 
up aff his sate, an’ shut his taith so hard he bruk his pipe- 
stem to smithereens. 

“ ‘ Say no more, mother,’ he says to her. ‘ Burthey ’s good 
enough, but I would n’t marry her if she was made av goold. 
Begob, she ’s too big. I want no hogs’ead av a girl like her,’ 
says he. i If I’m to he marr’d, I want a little woman. 
They ’re betther o’ their size, an’ it don’t take so much to buy 
gowns for thim, naither do they ate so much,’ says he. 

“ ‘ A-a-ah, baithershin,’ says his mother to him ; ‘ phat d’ye 
mane be talkin’ that-a-way, an’ me workin’ me fingers to the 
bone clanin’ the house for ye, an’ relavin’ ye av all the coort- 
in’ so as ye ’d not be bothered in the laste wid it.’ 

“ ‘ Shmall thanks to ye,’ says Finn, ‘ sure is n’t the coortin’ 
the best share o’ the job ? ’ 


AN’ WHO ARE YOU, ME DEAR ? ” SAYS FINN, LOOKIN’ UP. Page 157. 







•/V 


































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t 




















THE HENPECKED GIANT. 


161 


“ ‘ Don’t ye mane to marry her ? ’ says his mother. 

“ 6 Divil a toe will I go wid her/ says Finn. 

“ ‘ Out, ye onmannerly young blaggard, I ’d tell ye to go to 
the divil, but ye ’re on the way fast enough, an’ bad luck to 
the fut I ’ll shtir to halt ye. Only I ’m sorry for Burthey/ 
says she , 6 wid her new gown made. When her brother comes 
back, begob ’t is he that ’ll be the death av ye immejitly af- 
ther he dhrops his two eyes on ye.’ 

“ ‘ Aisey now,’ says Finn , 6 if he opens his big mouth at me, 
I ’ll make him wondher why he was n’t born deef an’ dumb,’ 
says he, an’ so he would, for all that he was so paceable. 

“ Afther that, phat was his mother to do but lave aff an’ 
go to bed, that she done, givin’ Finn all the talk in her head 
an’ a million curses besides, for she was mightily vexed at 
bein’ bate that way an’ was in a divil av a timper along o’ 
the house-clanin’, that always puts wimmin into a shtate av 
mind. 

“ So the next day the news was towld, an’ Finn got to be 
a holy show for the nabers, bekase av not marryin’ Burthey 
an’ wantin’ the barmaid. They were afeared to say annything 
to himself about it, for he ’d an arm on him the thick o’ yer 
waist, an’ no wan wanted to see how well he cud use it, but 
they ’d whisper afther him, an’ whin he wint along the road, 
they ’d pint afther him, an’ by an’ by a giont like himself, 
an uncle av him, towld him he ’d betther lave the counthry, 
an’ so he thought he ’d do an’ made ready for to shtart. 

“ But poor Burthey pined wid shame an’ grief at the loss 
av him, for she loved him wid all the heart she had, an’ that 
was purty big. So she fell aff her weight, till from the size 
av a hogs’ead she got no bigger round than a barrel an’ was 
like to die. But all the time she kept on hopin’ that he ’d 
come to her, but whin she heard for sartain he was goin’ to 


162 


IRISH WONDERS. 


lave the counthry she let go' an’ jumped aff that clift into the 
say an’ committed shooicide an’ drownded herself. She was n’t 
turned into a pillar at all, that ’s wan o’ thim guides’ lies ; she 
just drownded like annybody that fell into the wather would, 
an’ was found afther an’ berrid be the fishermen, an’ a hard 
job av it they had, for she weighed a ton. But they called 
the place the Lovers’ Lape, bekase she jumped from it, an’ 
lovin’ Finn the way she did, the lape she tuk made the place 
be called afther her an’ that ’s razon enough. 

“ Finn was showbogher enough afore, but afther that he 
seen it was no use thryin’ for to live in Ireland at all, so he 
got the barmaid, that was aiquel to goin’ wid him, the more 
that ivery wan was agin him, that ’s beway o’ the conthrari- 
ness av wimmin, that are always ready for to do anny thing ye 
don’t want thim to do, an’ wint to Scotland an’ was n’t heard 
av for a long time. 

“ About twelve years afther, there was a great talk that 
Finn had got back from Scotland wid his wife an’ had taken 
the farm over be the village, the first on the left as ye go 
down the mountain. At first there was no end av the fuss 
that was, for Burthey’s frinds had n’t forgotten, but it all 
come to talk, so Finn settled down quite enough an’ wint to 
work. But he was an althered man. His hair an’ beard were 
gray as a badger, so they called him the Gray Man, an’ he ’d 
a look on him like a shape-stalin’ dog. Everybody won- 
dhered, but they did n’t wondher long, for it was aisely per- 
saived he had cause enough, for the tongue o’ Missis Finn 
wint like a stame-ingine, kapin’ so far ahead av her branes 
that she ’d have to shtop an’ say 6 an’-uh, an’-uh,’ to give the 
latther time for to ketch up. Jagers, but she was the woman 
for to talk an’ schold an’ clack away till ye ’d want to die to 
be rid av her. When she was young she was a purty nice 


THE HENPECKED GIANT. 


163 


girl, but as she got owlder her nose got sharp, her lips were as 
thin as the aidge av a sickle, an’ her chin was as pinted as the 
bow av a boat. The way she managed Finn was beautiful to 
see, for he was that afeared av her tongue that he dar n’t say 
his sowl belonged to him when she was by. 

“ When he got up airly in the mornin’, she ’d ax/ Now phat 
are ye raisin’ up so soon for, an’ me just closin’ me eyes in 
slape ? ’ an’ if he ’d lay abed, she ’d tell him to ‘ get along 
out o’ that now, ye big gossoon ; if it was n’t for me ye ’d do 
nothin’ at all but slape like a pig.’ If he ’d go out, she ’d 
gosther him about where he was goin’ an’ phat he meant to 
do when he got there ; if he shtayed at home, she ’d raymark 
that he done nothin’ but set in the cabin like a boss o’ shtraw. 
When he timed for to plaze her, she ’d grumble at him bekase 
he did n’t thry sooner ; when he let her be, she ’d fall into a 
fury an’ shtorm till his hair shtud up like it was bewitched it 
was. 

“ She ’d more thricks than a showman’s dog. If scholdin’ 
did n’t do for Finn, she ’d cry at him, an’ had tin childher that 
she larned to cry at him too, an’ when she begun, the tin o’ 
thim ’ud set up a yell that ’ud deefen a thrumpeter, so Finn 
’ud give in. 

“ She cud fall ill on tin minnits notice, an’ if Finn was ob- 
sthreperous in that degray that she cud n’t do him no other 
way, she ’d let on her head ached fit to shplit, so she ’d go to 
bed an’ shtay there till she ’d got him undher her thumb agin. 
So she knew just where to find him whin she wanted him ; 
that wimmin undhershtand, for there ’s more divilmint in wan 
woman’s head about gettin’ phat she wants than in tin men’s 
bodies. 

u Sure, if iver annybody had raison to remimber the ould 
song, “ When I was single,” it was Finn. 


164 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ So, ye see, Finn, the Gray Man, was afther havin’ the 
divil’s own time, an’ that was beways av a mishtake he made 
about marry in’. He thought it was wan o’ thim goold bands 
the quol’ty ladies wear on their arrums, but he found it was 
a handcuff it was. Sure wimmin are quare craythers. Ye 
think life wid wan o’ thim is like a sunshiny day an’ it ’s noth- 
ing but drizzle an’ fog from dawn to dark, an’ it ’s my belafe 
that Misther O’Day was n’t far wrong when he said wimmin 
are like the owld gun he had in the house an’ that wint aff 
an the shly wan day an’ killed the footman. ‘ Sure it looked 
innycent enough,’ says he, ‘ but it was loaded all the same, an’ 
only waitin’ for an axcuse to go aff at some wan, an’ that ’s 
like a woman, so it is,’ he ’d say, an’ ivery wan ’ud laugh when 
he towld that joke, for he was the landlord, 6 that ’s like a 
woman, for she ’s not to be thrusted avin when she ’s dead.’ 

“ But it ’s me own belafe that the most sarious mishtake av 
Finn’s was in marryin’ a little woman. There ’s thim that 
says all wimmin is a mishtake be nacher, but there ’s a big 
differ bechuxt a little woman an’ a big wan, the little wans 
have sowls too big for their bodies, so are always lookin’ out 
for a big man to marry, an’ the bigger he is, the betther they 
like him, as knowin’ they can manage him all the aisier. So 
it was wid Finn an’ his little wife, for be hook an’ be crook 
she re juiced him in that obejince that if she towld him for to 
go an’ shtand on his head in the corner, he ’d do it wid the 
risk av his life, bekase he ’d wanted to die an’ go to heaven 
as he heard the priest say there was no marryin’ there, an’ 
though he did n’t dare to hint it, he belaved in his sowl that 
the rayzon was the wimmin did n’t get that far. 

“ Afther they ’d been living here about a year, Finn 
thought he ’d fish a bit an’ so help along, considherin’ he ’d a 
big family an’ none o’ the childher owld enough for to work. 





THE HENPECKED GIANT. 


167 


So he got a boat an’ did purty well an’ his wife used to come 
acrass the hill to the shore to help him wid the catch. But 
it was far up an’ down agin an’ she ’d get tired wid climbin’ 
the hill an’ jawing at Finn on the way. 

“ So wan day as they were cornin’ home, they passed a 
cabin an’ there was the man that lived there, that was only a 
ditcher, a workin’ away on the side av the hill down the path 
to the shpring wid a crowbar, movin’ a big shtone, an’ the 
shweat rollin’ in shtrames aff his face. 

“ ‘ God save ye,’ says Finn to him. 

“ 6 God save ye kindly,’ says he to Finn. 

“ ‘ It ’s a bizzy man ye are,’ says Finn. 

“ ‘ Thrue for ye,’ says the ditcher. ‘ It ’s along o’ the owld 
woman. “ The way to the shpring is too stape an’ shtoney,” 
says she to me, an’ sure, I ’m afther makin’ it aisey for her.’ 

“‘Ye’re the kind av a man to have,’ says Missis Finn, 
shpakin’ up. ‘ Sure all wimmin is n’t blessed like your wife,’ 
says she, lookin’ at Finn, who let on to laugh when he wanted 
to shwear. They had some more discoorse, thin Finn an’ his 
wife wint on, but it put a big notion into her head. If the 
bogthrotter, that was only a little ottommy, ’ud go to work 
like that an’ make an aisey path for his owld woman to the 
shpring, phat ’s the rayzon Finn cud n’t fall to an’ dig a path 
through the mountains, so she cud go to the say an’ to the 
church on the shore widout breakin’ her back climbin’ up an’ 
then agin climbin’ down. ’T was the biggest consate iver in 
the head av her, an’ she was n’t wan o’ thim that ’ud let it 
cool aff for the want o’ talkin’ about it, so she up an’ towld it 
to Finn, an’ got afther him to do it. Finn wasn’t aiger for 
to thry, bekase it was Satan’s own job, so he held out agin all 
her scholdin’ an’ beggin’ an’ cryin’. Then she got sick on 
him, wid her headache, an’ wint to bed, an’ whin Finn was 


168 


IRISH WONDERS. 


about she ’d wondher out loud phat she was iver born for an’ 
why she cud n’t die. Then she ’d pray, so as Finn ’ud hear 
her, to all the saints to watch over her big gossoon av a hus- 
band an’ not forget him just bekase he was a baste, an’ if Finn 



’ud thry to quiet her, she ’d pray all the louder, an’ tell him it 
did n’t matther, she was dyin’ an’ ’ud soon be rid av him an’ 
his brutal ways, so as Finn got half crazy wid her an’ was 
ready to do annything in the worruld for to get her quiet. 


THE HENPECKED GIANT. 


169 


“ Afther about a week av this thratemint, Finn give in an’ 
wint to work wid a pick an’ shpade on the Gray Man’s Path. 
But thim that says he made it in wan night is ignerant, for I 
helave it tuk him a month at laste ; if not more. So that ’s 
the thrue shtory av the Gray Man’s Path, as me grandfather 
towld it, an’ shows that a giont’s size is n’t a taste av help to 
him in a contist wid a woman’s jaw. 

“ But to be fair wid her, I belave the onliest fault Finn’s 
wife had was, she was possist be the divil, an’ there ’s thim 
that thinks that ’s enough. I mind me av a young felly wan 
time that was in love, an’ so to be axcused, that wished he ’d 
a hunderd tongues so to do justice to his swateheart. So 
afther that he marr’d her, an’ whin they’d been marr’d a 
while an’ she ’d got him undher her fisht, says they to him, 
4 An’ how about yer hunderd tongues ? ’ ‘ Begorra,’ says he 

to thim agin, ( wid a hunderd I ’d get along betther av coorse 
than wid wan, but to be ay quel to the waggin’ av her jaw I ’d 
nade a hunderd t’ousand.’ 

“ So it ’s a consate I have that Missis Finn was not a haporth 
worse nor the rest o’ thim, an’ that ’s phat me grandfather said 
too, that had been marr’d twict, an’ so knewn phat he was 
talkin’ about. An’ whin he towld the shtory av the Gray 
Man, he ’d always end it wid a bit av poethry : — 

“ 1 The first rib did bring in ruin 
As the rest have since been doin’ ; 

Some be wan way, some another, 

Woman shtill is mischief’s mother. 

“ ‘ Be she good or be she avil, 

Be she saint or be she divil, 

Shtill unaisey is his life 
That is marr’d wid a wife.’ ” 


SATAN AS A SCULPTOR. 



from the sea-shore, nothing can be 


ing the valley by the road leading 


one of the fishing villages 
Hf which abound on the Clare 
coast, a narrow valley runs 
back from the sea into the 
mountains, opening between 
two precipices that, ages ago, 
were rent asunder by the 
forces of nature. On enter- 


seen but barren cliffs and craggy heights, covered here and 
there by patches of the moss peculiar to the country. After 
making some progress, the gorge narrows, the moss becomes 
denser on the overhanging rocks ; trees, growing out of clefts 
in the precipices, unite their branches above the chasm, and 
shroud the depths, so that, save an hour or two at noon, the 
rays of the sun do not penetrate to the crystal brook, rip- 
pling along at the bottom over its bed of moss-covered peb- 
bles, — now flashing white as it leaps down a declivity, now 
hiding itself under the overreaching ferns, now coming again 
into the light, but always hurrying on as though eager to es- 
cape from the dark, gloomy retreat, and, for a moment, enjoy 
the sunshine of the wider valley beyond before losing its life 
in the sea. 


SATAN AS A SCULPTOR. 


171 


At a narrow turn in the valley and immediately over the 
spot where the brook has its origin in a spring bursting out 
of a crevice in the rock and falling iuto a circular well partly 
scooped out, partly built up for the reception of the sparkling 
water, a cliff rises perpendicularly to the height of fifty feet, 



surmounted, after a break in the strata, by another, perhaps 
twenty feet higher, the upper portion being curiously wrought 
by nature’s chisel into the shape of a human countenance. 
The forehead is shelving, the eyebrows heavy and menacing ; 
the nose large and hooked like the beak of a hawk ; the upper 
lip short, the chin prominent and pointed, while a thick growth 


172 


IRISH WONDERS. 


of ferns in the shelter of the crag forming the nose gives the 
impression of a small mustache and goatee. Above the fore- 
head a mass of tangled undergrowth and ferns bears a strong 
resemblance to an Oriental turban. An eye is plainly indi- 
cated by a bit of light-colored stone, and altogether the face 
has a sinister leer, that, in an ignorant age, might easily in- 
spire the fears of a superstitious people. 

On a level with the chin and to the right of the face is the 
mouth of a cave, reached by a path up the hillside, rude steps 
in the rock rendering easier the steep ascent. The cave can 
be entered only by stooping, but inside a room nearly seven 
feet high and about twelve feet square presents itself. Un- 
doubtedly the cave was once the abode of an anchorite, for 
on each side of the entrance a Latin cross is deeply carved in 
the rock, while within, at the further side, and opposite the 
door, a block of stone four feet high was left for an altar. 
Above it, a shrine is hollowed out of the stone wall, and over 
the cavity is another cross, surmounted by the mystic I. H. S. 

The legend of the cave was told by an old “ wise woman ” 
of the neighborhood with a minuteness of detail that ren- 
dered the narrative more tedious than graphic. A devout 
believer in the truth of her own story, she told it with won- 
derful earnestness, combining fluency of speech with the into- 
nations of oratory in such a way as to render the legend as 
interesting as a dramatic recitation. 

“ ’T is the cave av the saint, but phat saint I ’m not rightly 
sartain. Some say it was Saint Patrick himself, but ’t is I don’t 
belave that same. More say it was the blessed Saint Kevin, 
him that done owld King O’Toole out av his land in the bar- 
gain he made fur curin’ his goose, but that ’s not thrue aither, 
an’ it ’s my consate they ’re right that say it was Saint Tiger- 
nach, the same that built the big Abbey av Clones in Mona- 







t 

















SATAN AS A SCULPTOR. 175 

ghan. His Riverince, Father Murphy, says that same, an’ 
sorra a wan has a chance av knowin’ betther than him. 

“ An’ the big head on the rock there is the divil’s face that 
the saint made him put there, the time the blessed man was 
too shmart fur him whin the Avil Wan thried to do him. 

“ A quare owld shtory it is, an’ the quol’ty that come down 
here on the coast laugh if it ’s towld thim, an’ say it ’s a Fun- 
derm’ big lie that ’s in it, bekase they don’t undhershtand it, 
but if men belaved nothin’ they did n’t undhershtand, it ’s a 
short craydo they’d have. But I was afther tellin’, Saint 
Tigernach lived in the cave, it bein’ him an’ no other; 
morebetoken, he was a good man an’ shrewder than a fox. 
He made the cave fur himself an’ lived there, an’ ivery day 
he ’d say tin thousand paters, an’ five thousand aves, an’ a 
thousand craydos, an’ thin go out among the poor. There 
was n’t manny poor thin in Ireland, Glory be to God, fur the 
times was betther thin, but phat there was looked up to the 
saint, fur he was as good as a cupboard to thim, an’ whin he 
begged fur the poor, sorra a man ’ud get from him till he ’d 
given him a copper or more, fur he ’d shtick like a consthable 
to ye till he ’d get his money. An’ all that were parshecuted, 
an’ the hungry, an’ naked, and God’s poor, wint to the saint 
like a child to its mother an’ towld him the whole o’ their heart. 

“ While the blessed saint lived here, over acrass the hill an’ 
beyant the peat-bog there was a hedger an’ ditcher named 
O’Connor. He was only a poor laborin’ man, an’ the owld 
woman helped him, while his girl, be the name o’ Kathleen, 
tinded the house, fur I must tell ye, they kept a boord in the 
corner be ways av a bar an’ a jug wid potheen that they sowld 
to thim that passed, fur it was afore the days av the gaugers, 
bad cess to thim, an’ ivery man dhrunk phat he plazed wid- 
out payin’ a pinny to the govermint. So O’Connor made 


176 


IRISH WONDERS. 


the potheen himself an’ Kathleen sowld it to the turf -cutters, 
an’ mighty little did they buy, bekase they ’d no money. She 
was a fine girl, wid a pair av eyes that ’ud dint the hearts av 
owld an’ young, an’ wid a dacint gown fur the week an’ a 
clane wan fur the Sunday, an’ just such a girl as ’ud make an 
owld felly feel himself young agin. Sorra the taste av divil- 
mint was there in the girl at all, fur she was good as the 
sunshine in winther an’ as innycent as a shpring lamb, an’ 
wint to church an’ did her jooty reglar. 

“ She was afther failin’ in love wid a young felly that done 
ditchin’ an’ they were to be marr’d whin he got his house 
done an’ his father gev him a cow. He was n’t rich be no 
manes, but as fur feelin’ poverty, he never dhreamt o’ such a 
thing, fur he ’d the love o’ Kathleen an’ thought it a forchune. 

“ In thim times the castle at the foot o’ the hill was kept 
be a lord, that wid roomy tisms an’ panes in his jints was laid 
on his bed all the time, and the son av him, Lord Robert, was 
the worst man to be runnin’ afther girls iver seen in the 
County Clare. He was the dandy among thim an’ broke the 
hearts o’ thim right an’ lift like he was shnappin’ twigs un- 
dher his feet. Manny a wan he desaved an’ let go to the 
dogs, as they did at wanst, fur whin the divil gets his foot on 
a woman’s neck, she niver lifts her head agin. 

“ W an day, Lord Robert’s father’s roomytism got the bet- 
ther av him an’ laid him out, an’ they gev him an iligant wake 
an’ berryin’, an’ while they were at the grave Lord Robert 
looked up an’ seen Kathleen shtandin’ among the people an’ 
wondhered who she was. So he come into the eshtate an’ got 
a stable full av horses an’ dogs, an’ did a power o’ huntin’, 
an’ as he was a sojer, he ’d a shwarm av throopers at the cassel, 
all the like av himself. But not long afther the berryin’, 
Lord Robert was huntin’ in the hills, an’ he come down to- 


SATAN AS A SCULPTOR. 


177 


wards the bog an’ seen O’Connor’s cabin, an’ says to his man, 
‘ Bedad, I wondher if they ’ve a dhrop to shpare here, I ’m 
mortial dhry.’ So in they wint, an’ axed, an’ got thim their 
dhrink, an’ thin he set the wicked eyes av him on the girl an’ 
at wanst remimbered her. 

“ 6 It ’s a mighty fine girl ye are,’ says he to Kathleen thin, 
an’ fit fur the house av a prince.’ 

“ ‘ None o’ yer deludherin’ talk to me, Sorr,’ says Kathleen 
to him. ‘I know ye, an’ it ’s no good I know av ye,’ says she 
to him. ’T was the good girl she was an’ as firm as a land- 
lord in a bad year when she thought there was anny avil in- 
tinded. 

“ So he wint away that time an’ come agin an’ agin when 
he was huntin’ an’ always had some impidince to say at her. 
She towld her parrents av it, an’ though they did n’t like it at 
all, they was n’t af eared fur the girl, an’ he ’d spind more in 
wan dhrinkin’ than they ’d take in in a week, so they were 
not sorry to see him come, but ivery time he come he wint 
away more detarmined to have the girl, an’ whin he found he 
cud n’t get her be fair manes he shwore he ’d do it be foul. 
So wanst, whin she ’d been cowlder to him than common an’ 
would n’t have a prisint he brought her, he says to her, ‘ Be- 
gob, I ’ll bring ye to terms. If ye won’t accept me prisints, 
I ’ll make ye bend yer will widout prisints,’ an’ he wint 
away. She got frighted, an’ whin she saw Tim Maccarty, 
she towld him av Lord Robert an’ phat he said. Well, it 
made Tim mighty mad. 6 Tatther an’ agers,’ says he, ‘ be the 
powers, I ’ll break every bone in his body if he lays a finger 
on yer showldher ; but, fur all that, whin Tim got to thinkin’, 
he got skairt av Kathleen. 

u ‘ Sure,’ says he to himself, ‘ ain’t wimmin like glass jugs, 
that ’ll break wid the laste touch ? I ’ll marry her immejitly 


178 


IRISH WONDERS. 


an’ take out av Clare into Kerry/ says he, c an’ let him dare 
to come afther her there/ says he, for he knewn that if Lord 
Robert came into the Kerry mountains, the boys ’ud crack his 
shkull wid the same compuncshusness that they ’d have to an 
egg shell. So he left aff the job an’ convaynienced himself to 
go to Kathleen that night an’ tell her his belafe. 

“ ‘ Am n’t I af eared fur ye, me darlin’/ says he, * and 
would n’t I dhrownd me in the say if anny harm ’ud come to 
ye, so I think we ’d betther be married at wanst.’ 

“ So Kathleen consinted an’ made a bundle av her Sunday 
gown, an’ they shtarted fur the saint’s cave, that bein’ the 
nearest place they cud be marr’d at, an’ bein’ marr’d be him 
was like bein’ marr’d be a priest. 

“ So they wint alang the road to where the foot-path laves 
it be the oak-tree, then up the path an’ through the boreen to 
where Misther Dawson’s black mare broke her leg jumpin’ the 
hedge, an’ whin they rached that shpot they heard a noise on 
the road behint thim an’ stud be the hedge, peepin’ through 
to have a look at it an’ see phat it was. An’ there was Lord 
Robert an’ a dozen av his bad min, wid their waypons an’ the 
armor on thim shinin’ in the moonlight. It was ridin’ to 
O’Connor’s they were, an’ whin Tim an’ Kathleen set their eyes 
on thim, they seen they ’d made a narrer eshcape. 

“ Howandiver, as soon as Lord Robert an’ his min were out 
o’ sight, they ran wid all their shpeed, an’ lavin’ the path where 
Dennis Murphy fell into the shtrame lasht winter cornin’ back 
from Blanigan’s wake whin he ’d had too much, they tuk the 
rise o’ the hill, an’ that was a mishtake. If they ’d kep be 
the hedge an’ ’round be the foot-bridge, then up the footway 
the other side o’ the brook an’ ferninst the mill, they ’d have 
kep out o’ sight, an’ been safe enough ; but as they were 
crassin’ the hill, wan av Robert’s min saw thim, fur it was af- 


SATAN AS A SCULPTOR. 


179 


ther the girl he was sure enough, an’ whin he found from her 
father her an’ Tim were gone, they rode aff here an’ there 
sarchiiT afther thim. Whin the sojer shpied thim on the top 
o’ the hill, he blew his thrumpet, an’ here come all the rest 
shtreelin’ along on the run, round the hill as fast as their 
bastes ’ud take thim, fur they guessed where the two ’ud be 
goin’. An’ Kathleen an’ Tim come tumblin’ down the shlope, 
an’ bad luck to the minnit they ’d to shpare whin they got 
into the cave before here was the whole gang, wid their horses 
puffin’, an’ their armors rattlin’ like a pedler’s tins. 

u The saint was on a pile av shtraw in the corner, shnorin’ 
away out av his blessed nose, fur it was as sound aslape as a 
pig he was, bein’ tired entirely wid a big day’s job, an’ did n’t 
wake up wid their cornin’ in. So Lord Robert an’ his min 
left their horses below an’ climbed up an’ looked in, but cud 
see nothin’ be razon av the darkness. 

“ 6 Arrah now,’ says he, ‘ Kathleen, come along out o’ that 
now, fur I ’ve got ye safe an’ sound.’ 

u They answered him niver a word, but he heard a noise 
that was the saint turnin’ over on his bed bein’ onaisey in his 
slape. 

u 6 Come along out o’ that,’ he repaited ; ( an’ you, Tim 
Maccarty, if ye come out, ye may go back to yer ditchin’, but 
if ye wait fur me to fetch ye, the crows ’ull be atin’ ye at sun- 
rise. Shtrike a light,’ says he. So they did, an’ looked in 
an’ saw Tim an’ Kathleen, wan on aitch side o’ the althar, 
holdin’ wid all their mights to the crass that was on it. 

“ 6 Dhrag thim ^out av it,’ says Lord Robert, an’ the min 
went in, but afore they come near thim, Saint Tigernach 
shtopped shnorin’, bein’ wakened wid the light an’ jabberin’, 
an’ shtud up on the flure. 

“ ‘ Howld on now,’ says the blessed saint, * phat ’s the 


180 


IRISH WONDERS. 


matther here ? Phat ’s all this murtherin’ noise about ? ’ 
says he. 

“ Lord Robert’s min all dhrew back, for there was a power 
o’ fear av the saint in the county, an’ Lord Robert undhertuk 
to axplain that the girl was a sarvint av his that run away wid 



that thafe av a ditcher, but Saint Tigernach seen through the 
whole thrick at wanst. 

“ ‘ Lave aff,’ says he. ‘ Don’t offer fur to thrape thim lies 
on me. Pack aff wid yer murtherers, or it ’s the curse ye ’ll 
get afore ye can count yer fingers,’ an’ wid that all the min 
went out, an’ Lord Robert afther thim, an’ all he cud say 
’ud n’t pervail on the sojers to go back afther the girl. 




SATAN AS A SCULPTOR. 


181 


66 6 No, yer Anner,’ says they to him ; ‘ we ate yer Aimer’s 
mate, an’ dhrink yer Anner’s dhrink, an’ ’ull do yer Anner’s 
biddin’ in all that ’s right. W e’re parfectly willin’ to wait till 
mornin’ an’ murther the ditcher an’ shtale the girl whin they 
come out an’ get away from the saint, but he mus n’t find it 
out. It ’s riskin’ too much. Begorra, we ’ve got sowls to 
save,’ says they, so they all got on their horses an’ shtarted 
back to the cassel. 

66 Lord Robert folly’d thim a bit, but the avil heart av him 
was so set on Kathleen that he cud n’t bear the thought av 
lettin’ her go. So whin he got to the turn av the road, 
‘ T’underation,’ says he, ‘ ’t is the wooden head that ’s set on 
me showldhers, that I did n’t think av the witch afore.’ 

“ Ye see, in the break av the mountains beyant the mill, 
where the rath is, there was in thim times the cabin av a great 
witch. ’T was a dale av avil she done the County Clare wid 
shtorms an’ rainy sayzons an’ cows lavin’ aff their milk, an’ 
she ’d a been dhrownded long afore, but fur fear av the divil, 
her masther, that was at her elbow, whinever she ’d crook her 
finger. So to her Lord Robert wint, an’ gev a rap on the 
dure, an’ in. There she sat wid a row av black cats on aitch 
side, an’ the full av a shkillet av sarpints a-shtewin’ on the fire. 
He knew her well, fur she ’d done jobs fur him afore, so he 
made bowld to shtate his arriant widout so much as sayin’ 
good day to ye. The owld fagot made a charm to call her 
masther, an’ that minnit he was shtandin’ be her side, bowin’ 
an’ schrapin’ an’ shmilin’ like a gintleman come to tay. He 
an’ Lord Robert fell to an’ had a power av discoorse on the 
bargain, fur Robert was a sharp wan an’ wanted the con- 
thract onsartain-like, hopin’ to chate the divil at the end, as 
we all do, be the help av God, while Satan thried to make it 
shtronger than a tinant’s lace. Afther a dale av palatherin’, 


182 


IRISH WONDERS. 


they aggrade that the divil was to do all that Lord Robert 
axed him fur twinty years, an’ then to have him sowl an 
body ; but if he failed, there was an end av the bargain. But 
there was a long face on the owld felly whin the first thing 
he was bid to do was to bring Kathleen out o’ the cave an 
carry her to the cassel. 

“ ‘ By Jayminny,’ says Satan, ‘ it ’s no aisey job fur to 
be takin’ her from the power av a great saint like him,’ 
a-scratchin’ his head. ( But come on, we’ll thry.’ 



“ So the three av thim mounted on the wan horse, Lord 
Robert in the saddle, the divil behind, an’ the witch in front 
av him, an’ away like the wind to the cave. Whin they got 
to the turn o’ the hill, they got aff an’ hid in the bushes be- 
chune the cave an’ the shpring, bekase, as Satan axplained to 
Lord Robert, ivery night, just at midnight, the saint wint to 
get him a dhrink av wather, bein’ dliry wid the devotions, an’ 
’ud bring the full av a bucket back wid him. 


SATAN AS A SCULPTOR. 


183 


u 6 We ’ll shtop him be the shpring,’ says the divil, 6 wid 
the witch, an’ you an’ me ’ull shtale the girl while he ’s talk- 
in . 

u So while the clock was shtrikin’ fur twilve, out come the 
saint wid the wather-bucket an’ shtarted to the shpring. 
Whin he got there an’ was takin’ his dhrink, up comes the 
witch an’ begins tellin’ him av a son she had (she was pur- 
tin din’, ye ondhershtand, an’ lyin’ to him) that was as lazy 
as a car-horse an’ as much in the way as a sore thumb, an’ 
axin’ the saint’s advice phat to do wid him, while Satan an’ 
Lord Robert ran into the cave. The divil picked up Kath- 
leen in his arrums, but he dar n’t have done that same, only 
she was on the other side av the cave an’ away from the al- 
thar, but Tim was shtandin’ by it, an’ shtarted out wid her 
kickin’ an’ schraichin’. Tim ran to grip him, but Satan 
tossed him back like a ball an’ he fell on the flure. 

“ * Howld on till I shtick him,’ says Lord Robert, pullin’ 
out his soord. 

“ ‘ Come on, ye bosthoon,’ says Satan to him. ‘ Sure the 
saint ’ull be on us if we don’t get away quick,’ an’ bedad, as 
he said thim words, the dure opened, an’ in come Saint Tiger- 
nach wid a bucket av wather on his arrum an’ in a hurry, fur 
he misthrusted something. 

u 6 God’s presince be about us,’ says the blessed saint, whin 
he saw the divil, an’ the turkey-bumps begun to raise on his 
blessed back an’ the shweat a-comin’ on his face, fur he knewn 
Satan well enough, an’ consaved the owld felly had come fur 
himself be razon av a bit o’ mate he ate that day, it bein’ av a 
Friday ; axceptin’ he did n’t ate the mate but only tasted it 
an’ then spit it out agin to settle a quarl bechune a butcher 
an’ a woman that bought the mate an’ said it was bad, only 
he was afeared Satan did n’t see him when he sput it out 


184 


IRISH WONDERS. 


agin. ‘ God’s presince be about us/ says the saint, a-crossin’ 
himseif as fast as he cud. In a minnit though, he seen it 
was n’t him, but Kathleen, that was in it, an’ let go the wather 
an’ caught the blessed crass that was hangin’ on him wid his 
right hand an’ gripped Satan be the throat wid his lift, a-push- 
in’ the crass in his face. 

“ The divil dhropped Kathleen like it was a bag av male she 
was, an’ she rolled over an’ over on the flure like a worrum 
till she raiched the althar an’ stuck to it as tight as the bark 
on a tree. An’ a fine thing it was to see the inimy av our 
sowls a-lyin’ there trimblin’, wid the saint’s fut on his neck. 

“ ‘ Glory be to God,’ says the saint. 6 Lie you there till I 
make an example av ye,’ says he, an’ turned to look fur Lord 
Robert, bekase he knewn the two o’ thim ’ud be in it. But 
the Sassenagh naded no invitation to be walkin’ aff wid him- 
self, but whin he seen phat come to the divil, he run away 
wid all the legs he had, an’ the witch wid him, an’ Tim afther 
thim wid a whoop an’ a fishtful av shtones. But they left 
him complately an’ got away disconsarted, an’ Tim come back. 

“ ‘ Raise up,’ says Saint Tigernach to the divil, ‘ an’ shtand 
in the corner,’ makin’ the blessed sign on the ground afore 
him. ‘ I ’m afther marryin’ these two at wanst, widout fee or 
license, an’ you shall be the witness.’ 

“So he married thim there, while the divil looked on. 
Faix, it ’s no lie I ’m tellin’ ye ; it ’s not the onliest marryin’ 
the divil s been at, but he ’s not aften seen at thnji when he ’s 
in as low sper’ts as he was at that. But it was so that they 
were married wid Satan fur a witness, an’ some says the saint 
transported thim to Kerry through the air, but ’t is n’t meself 
that belaves that same, but that they walked to Kilrush an’ 
wint to Kerry in a fisherman’s boat. 

“ Afther they ’d shtarted, the saint turns to Satan an’ says, 


SATAN AS A SCULPTOR. 


185 


c No more av yer thricks wid them two, me fine felly, fur I 
mane to give you a job that’ll kape ye out av mischief 
fur wan time at laste/ fur he was mightily vexed wid him 
a-comin’ that-a-way right into his cave the same as if the 
place belonged to him. 

“ ‘ Go you to work/ says he, ‘ an’ put yer face on the rock 
over the shpring, so that as long as the mountain shtands min 
can come an’ see phat sort av a dirthy lookin’ baste ye are.’ 

“ So Satan wint out an’ looked up at the rock, shmilin’, as 
fur to say that was no great matther, an’ whin the blessed 
man seen the grin that was on him, he says, 6 None av yer in- 
chantmints will I have at all, at all. It ’s honest work ye ’ll 
do, an’ be the same token, here ’s me own hammer an’ chisel 
that ye ’ll take,’ an’ wid that the divil looked mighty sarious, 
an’ left aff grinnin’ for he parsaived the clift was granite. 

“ ‘ Sure it ’s jokin’ yer Riverince is,’ says he , c ye don’t mane 
it. Sorra the harder bit av shtone bechuxt this an’ Donegal,’ 
an’ it was thrue for him, fur he knewn the coast well. 

“ ‘ Bad luck to the taste av a lie ’s in it,’ says the saint. ‘ So 
take yer waypons an’ go at it, owld Buck-an’-Whey, fur the 
sooner ye begin, the quicker ye ’ll be done, an’ the shtone 
won’t soften be yer watin’. Mind ye kape a civil tongue in 
yer head while ye ’re at the job, or it ’ll be a holiday to the 
wan I ’ll find ye,’ says he, lookin’ at him very fierce. 

u So wid great displazemint, Satan tuk the hammer an 
chisel, an’ climbed up an’ wint to work a cuttin’ his own face 
on the shtone, an’ it was as hard as iron it was, an whin he ’d 
hit it a couple av cracks, he sh topped an’ shuck his head an’ 
thin scratched over his year wid the chisel an’ looked round 
at the saint as fur to say somethin’, but the blessed saint 
looked at him agin so fayroshus, that he made no raimark at 
all, but turned back to the clift quick an’ begun to hammer 


186 


IRISH WONDERS. 


away in airnest till the shweat shtud on his haythenish face 
like the dhrops on a wather-jug. 

“ On the next day, Lord Robert thought he ’d call the owld 
Inimy, an’ remind him that, bein’ as he ’d failed to get Kath- 
leen, their bargain was alf. So he made the charm Satan gev 
him, but he did n’t come fur anny thrial he ’d make. 

“ ‘ Bad scran to the Imp,’ says he. ‘ Sure he must be 
mighty busy or maybe he ’s forgot entirely.’ 

“ So he out an’ wint to see the witch, but she was n ’t in, 
an’ while he was waitin’ for her, bein’ not far away from the 
saint’s cave, he thought he ’d have a peep, an’ see if Tim an’ 
Kathleen were shtill there. So he crawled over the top o’ the 
hill beyant the cave like the sarpint that he was, an’ whin he 
come down a little, he seen the owld Pooka on the clift, wid 
the hammer in wan hand an’ the chisel in the other a poundin’ 
aw^ay at the rock an’ hangin’ on be his tail to a tree. Lord 
Robert thought the eyes ’ud lave his head, fur he seen it was 
the divil sure enough, but he cud n’t rightly make out phat he 
w T as doin’. So he crawled down till he seen, an’ thin, whin 
he undhershtood, he riz an’ come an’ took a sate on a big 
shtone ferninst the clift, a shlappin’ his legs wid his hands, an’ 
roarin’ an’ the wather bilin’ out av his eyes wid laughin’. 

tC( Hilloo Nickey,’ says he, when he’d got his breath agin 
an’ cud shpake. ‘ Is it yerself that ’s in it ? ’ Mind the impi- 
dince av him, shpakin’ that familiar to the inimy av our sowls, 
but faix, he ’d a tongue like a jewsharp, an’ cud use it too. 

“ ‘ Kape from me,’ says Satan to him agin, as crass as two 
shticks, an’ widout turnin’ his head fur to raigard him. ‘ Lave 
me ! Begorra, I ’ll wipe the clift aff w r id yer carkidge if ye 
come anny closter,’ says he. 

u ‘ A-a-a-h, woorroo, now. Aisey, ye desayvin’ owld blag- 
gard,’ says Lord Robert, as bowld as a ram, fur he knewn 


SATAN AS A SCULPTOR. 


187 


that Satan dare n’t lave the job to come at him. c Will ye 
kape yer timper ? Sure ye have n’t the manners av a goat, to 
be shpakin’ to a gintleman like that. I ’ve just come to tell 
ye that bein’ ye failed, our bargain ’s all,’ says he. 

“ ‘ Out wid ye,’ says the divil, turnin’ half round an’ howldin’ 
be wan hand to the big shtone nose he ’d just done, an’ shakin’ 
the other fist wid the chisel in it at Lord Robert. ‘ D’ ye think 
I want to be aggervated wid the likes av ye, ye whey-faced 
shpalpeen, an’ me losin’ the whole day, an’ business pressin’ 
at this saison, an’ breakin’ me back on the job, an’ me fingers 
sore wid the chisel, an’ me tail shkinned wid howldin’ on ? 
Bad luck to the shtone, it ’s harder than a Scotchman’s head, 
it is, so it is,’ says he, turnin’ back agin when he seen the 
saint at the dure av the cave. An’ thin he begun a peckin’ 
away at the clift fur dear life, shwearin’ to himself, so the 
saint cud ri’t hear him, every time he give his knuckles an on- 
lucky crack wid the hammer. 

“ ‘Ye ’re not worth the throuble,’ says he to Lord Robert ; 
he was that full av rage he cud n’t howld in. ‘ It ’s a pal- 
therin’ gossoon I was fur thrillin’ wid ye whin I was sure av 
ye annyhow.’ 

“ ‘ Yer a liar/ says Lord Robert, ‘ ye desaivin’ nagurly Hay- 
then. If ye was sure o’ me phat did ye want to make a bar- 
gain fur ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yer another,’ says Satan. ‘Isn’t a sparrer in yer hand 
betther than a goose on a shtring ? ’ 

“ So they were goin’ on wid the blaggardin 9 match, whin 
the blessed saint, that come out whin he heard thim begin, an’ 
thin set on the dure a-watchin’, to see that owld Nick did n’t ' 
schamp the job, interfared. 

“ ‘ Howld yer pace, Satan, an’ kape at yer work,’ says he. 

‘ An’ for you, ye blatherin’, milk-faced villin, wid the heart as 


188 


IRISH WONDERS. 


black as a crow, walk aff wid ye an’ go down on yer hard- 
hearted onbelavin’ knees, or it ’s no good ’ull come o’ ye/ 
An’ so he did. 

“ Do I belave the shtory ? Troth, I dunno. It ’s quare 
things happened in them owld days, an’ there ’s the face on 
the clift as ugly as the divil cud be an’ the hammer an’ chisel 
are in the church an’ phat betther proof cud ye ax ? 

“ Phat come av the lovers ? No more do I know that, bar- 
rin’ they grew owld an’ shtayed poor an’ forgot the shpring- 
time av youth in the winter av age, but if they lived a laun- 
der d years, they niver forgot the marry in’ in the saint’s cave, 
wid the black face av the Avil Wan lookin’ on from the dark 
corner.” 




THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


I HEN superstitions have not yet 
been banished from any other 
part of the world it is not won- 
derful that they should still be 
found in the country districts of 
Ireland, rural life being espe- 
cially favorable to the perpetua- 
tion of old ways of living and 
modes of thought, since in an 
agricultural district less change 
takes place in a century than may, 
in a city, be observed in a single 
decade. Country people preserve 
their old legends with their an- 
tique styles of apparel, and thus 
the relics of the pagan ages of Ireland have come down from 
father to son, altered and adapted to the changes in the coun- 
try and its population. Thus, for instance, the old-fashioned 
witch is no longer found in any part of Ireland, her memory 
lingering only as a tradition, but her modern successor is fre- 
quently met with, and in many parishes a retired hovel in a 
secluded lane is a favorite resort of the neighboring peasants, 
for it is the home of the Pishogue, or wise woman, who col- 
lects herbs, and, in her way, doctors her patients, sometimes 
with simple medicinal remedies, sometimes with charms, ac- 
cording to their gullibility and the nature of their ailments. 





190 


IRISH WONDERS. 


Not far from Ballinaliinch, a fishing village on Birterbuy 
Bay, in the County Galway, and in the most lonely valley of 
the neighborhood, there dwells one of these wise women who 
supplant the ancient witches. The hovel which shelters her 
bears every indication of wretched poverty ; the floor is mud, 
the smoke escapes through a hole in the thatch in default of 
a chimney ; the bed is a scanty heap of straw in the corner, 
and two rude shelves, bearing a small assortment of cracked 
jars and broken bottles, constitute Moll’s stock in trade. 

The misery of her household surroundings, however, fur- 
nished to the minds of her patients no argument against the 
efficiency of her remedies, Moll being commonly believed to 
have “-a power av goold,” though no one had ever seen any 
portion thereof. But with all her reputed riches she had no 
fear of robbers, for “ she could aisily do for thim did they but 
come as many as the shtraws in the thatch,” *and would-be rob- 
bers, no doubt understanding that fact, prudently consulted 
their own safety by staying away from the vicinity of her cabin. 

“ Owld Moll,” as she was known, was a power in the parish, 
and her help was sought in many emergencies. Did a cow go 
dry, Moll knew the reason and might possibly remove the 
spell ; if a baby fell ill, Moll had an explanation of its ail- 
ment, and could tell at a glance whether the little one was or 
was not affected by the evil eye of a secret enemy. If a pig 
was stolen, she was shrewd in her conjectures as to the direc- 
tion its wrathful owner must take in the search. But her forte 
lay in bringing about love-matches. Many were the charms 
at her command for this purpose, and equally numerous the 
successes with which she was accredited. Some particulars of 
her doings in this direction were furnished by Jerry Magwire, 
a jolly car-man of Galway, w r ho had himself been benefited by 
her services. 


THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


191 


“ Sure I was married meself be her manes/’ stated Jerry, 
“ an’ this is the way it was. Forty-nine years ago come next 
Mickelmas, I was a good-lookin’ young felly, wid a nate cabin 
on the road from Ballinasloe to Ballinamore, havin’ a fine car 
an’ a mare an’ her colt, that was as good as two horses whin the 
colt grew up. I was afther payin’ coort to Dora O’Callighan, 
that was the dawther av Misther O’Callighan that lived in the 
County Galway, an’, be the same token, was a fine man. In 
thim times I used be cornin’ over here twict or three times a 
year wid a bagman, commercial thraveller, you ’d call him, an’ 
I heard say av Owld Moll, an’ she was n’t owld thin, an’ the 
next time I come, I wint to her an’ got an inchantmint. Faix, 
some av it is gone from me, but I mind that I was to change 
me garthers, an’ tie on me thumb a bit o’ bark she gev me, an’ 
go to the churchyard on Halloween, an’ take the first chilla- 
ca-pooka (snail) I found on a tombshtone, an’ begob, it was 
that same job that was like to be the death o’ me, it bein’ dark 
an’ I bendin’ to look dost, a hare jumped in me face from un- 
dher the shtone. ‘ Jagers,’ says I, an’ me failin’ on me back 
on the airth an’ the life lavin’ me. ‘ Presince o’ God be about 
me/ says I, for I knewn the inchantmint was n’t right, no more 
I ought n’t to be at it, but the hare was skairt like meself an’ 
run, an’ I found the shnail an’ run too wid the shweat pourin’ 
alf me face in shtrames. 

“ So I put the shnail in a plate that I covered wid another, 
an’ av the Sunday, I opened it fur to see phat letters it writ, 
an’ bad luck to the wan o’ thim cud I rade at all, fur in thim 
days I cud n’t tell A from any other letther. I tuk the plate 
to Misther O’Callighan, fur he was a fine scholar an’ cud rade 
both books an’ writin’, an’ axed him phat the letters was. 

“ c A-a-ah, ye ignerant gommoch/ says he to me, 6 yer 
head ’s as empty as a drum. Sure here ’s no writin’ at all, 


192 


IRISH WONDERS. 


only marks that the shnail’s afther makin’ an’ it crawlin’ on 
the plate.’ 

“ So I axplained the inchantmint to him, an’ he looked a 
little closter, an’ thin jumped wid shurprise. 

“ ‘ Oh/ says he. 6 Is that thrue ? ’ says he. 6 Ye must ax- 
queeze me, Misther Magwire. Sure the shnails does n’t write 
a good hand, an’ I ’m an owld man an’ me eyes dim, but I see 
it betther now. Faith, the first letter ’s a D,’ says he, an’ 
thin he shtudied awhile. ‘ An’ the next is a 0, an’ thin 
there ’s a C,’ says he, ‘ only the D an’ the C is bigger than the 
0, an’ that ’s all the letters there is,’ says he. 

“ ‘ An’ phat does thim letters shpell ? ’ says I, bekase I 
did n’t know. 

“ ‘ Ah, bad scran to ’em,’ says he ; ‘ there ’s thim cows in me 
field agin,’ says he. * Ax Dora, here she comes,’ an’ away he 
wint as she come in, an’ I axed her phat D. 0. C. shpelt ; an’ 
she towld me her name, an’ I go bail she was surprised to find 
the shnail had writ thim letters on the plate, so we marr’d 
the next Sunday. 

“ But Owld Moll is a knowledgeable woman an’ has a power 
av shpells an’ charms. There ’s Tim Gallagher, him as dhrives 
the public car out o’ Galway, he ’s bought his luck av her be 
the month, fur nigh on twinty year, barrin’ wan month, that 
he forgot, an’ that time he shpilt his load in the ditch an’ kilt 
a horse, bein’ too dhrunk to dhrive. 

“ Whin me dawther Dora, that was named afther her 
mother, was ill afther she ’d been to the dance, whin O’Hoo- 
lighan’s Peggy was married to Paddy Noonan (she danced too 
hard in the cabin an’ come home in the rain), me owld woman 
wint to Moll an’ found that Dora had been cast wid an avil 
eye. So she gev her a tay to dhrink an’ a charm to wear 
agin it, an’ afther she ’d dhrunk the tay an’ put on the 
charm the faver lift her, an’ she was well entirely. 


AN’ PHAT DOES THIM LETTERS SHPELL?” Page 192, 








THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


195 


cc Sure Moll towlcl me wan magpie manes sorrow, two manes 
luck, three manes a weddin’, an’ four manes death ; an 5 did n’t 
I see four o’ thim the day o’ the fair in Ennis whin O’Dough- 
erty was laid out ? An’ whin O’Riley cut his arrum wid a 
bill-hook, an’ the blood was runnin’, did n’t she tie a shtring 
on the arrum an’ dip a raven’s feather into the blood av a 
black cat’s tail, an’ shtop the bleedin’ ? An’ did n’t she bid 
me take care o’ meself the day I met a red-headed woman 
afore dinner, an’ it was n’t six months till I met the woman in 
the mornin’, it a-rainin’ an’ ivery dhrop the full o’ yer hat, 
an’ me top-coat at home, an’ that same night was I tuk wid the 
roomytics an’ did n’t shtir a toe fur a fortnight. Faix, she ’s 
an owld wan is Moll; phat she can’t do is n’t worth thryin’. 
If she goes fur to make a match, all the fathers in Ireland cud 
n’t purvint it, an’ it ’s no use o’ their settin’ tlieirselves agin 
her, fur her head ’s as long as a summer day an’ as hard as a 
shillalee. 

“ Did iver ye hear how she got a husband for owld Miss 
Rooney, the same that married Misther Dooley that kapes the 
Aygle Inn in Lisdoon Y arna, an’ tuk him clane away from the 
Widdy Mulligan an’ two more widdys that were cornin’ down 
upon him like kites on a young rabbit ? 

“ W ell, it ’s a mighty improvin’ shtory, fur it shows that 
widdys can be baten whin they ’re afther a husband, that some 
does n’t belave, but they do say it takes a witch, the divil, an’ 
an owld maid to do it, an’ some think that all o’ thim is n’t ai- 
quel to a widdy, aven if there ’s three o’ thim an’ but wan av her. 

“ The razon av it is this. Widdy wimmin are like lobsthers, 
whin they wanst ketch holt, begob, they ’ve no consate av 
lettin’ go at all, but will shtick to ye tighter than a toe-nail, 
till ye *ve aither to marry thim or murther thim, that ’s the 
wan thing in the end ; fur if ye marry thim ye ’re talked to 


196 


IRISH WONDERS. 


death, an’ if ye murther thim ye ’re only dacintly hanged out 
o’ the front dure o’ the jail. Whin they ’re afther a husband, 
they ’re as busy as owld Nick, an’ as much in airnest as a dog 
in purshoot av a flea. More-be-token, they ’re always lookin’ 
fur the proper man, an’ if they see wan that they think will 
shuit, bedad, they go afther him as strait as an arrer, an’ if 
he does n’t take the alarum an’ run like a shape-thief, the 
widdy ’nil have him afore the althar an’ married fast an’ tight 
while he ’d be say in’ a Cray do. 

“ They know so much be wan axpayrience av marryin’, 
that, barrin’ it ’s a widdy man that ’s in it, an’ he knows as 
much as thimselves, they ’ll do for him at wanst, bekase it ’s 
well undhershtood that a bach’ler, aither young or owld, has 
as much show av outshtrappin’ a widdy as a mouse agin a weasel. 

“ Now, this Misther Dooley was an owld bach’ler, nigh on 
five an’ thirty, an’ about fifteen years ago, come next Ad- 
vint, he come from Cork wid a hit o’ money, an’ tuk the farm 
beyant Misther McCoole’s on the lift as ye come out o’ Gal- 
way. He was n’t a bad lookin’ felly, an’ liked the ladies, an’ 
the first time he was in chapel afther takin’ the farm, aitch 
widdy an’ owld maid set the two eyes av her on him, an’ the 
Widdy Mulligan says to herself, says she, ‘ Faix, that ’s just 
the man to take the place av me dear Dinnis,’ fur, ye see, the 
widdys always do spake that-a-way av their husbands, a-givin’ 
thim the good word afther they ’re dead, so as to make up fur 
the tongue lashin’s they give ’em whin they ’re alive. It ’s 
quare, so it is, phat widdys are like^ Whin ye see a widdy at 
the wake schraimin’ fit to shplit yer head wid the noise, an’ 
Hingin’ herself acrass the grave at the berryin’ like it was a 
bag o’ male she was, an’ thin spakin’ all the time av ‘ me poor 
dear hushband,’ I go bail they lived together as paceful as a 
barrel full o’ cats an’ dogs ; no more is it sorrow that ’s in it, 


THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


197 


but raimorse that ’s tarin’ at her, an’ the shquailin an kickin 
is beways av a pinnance fur the gostherin’ she done him whin 
he was livin’, fur the more there ’s in a jug, the less noise it 



makes runnin’ out, an’ whin ye ’ve a heavy load to carry, ye 
nade all yer breath, an’ so have none to waste tollin’ how it s 

breakin’ yer back. 

“ So it was wid the Widdy Mulligan, that kept the Sham- 


198 


IRISH WONDERS. 


rock Inn, for her Dinnis was a little ottomy av a gossoon, an’ 
her the full av a dure, an’ the arrum on her like a smith an’ 
the fut like a leg o’ mutton. Och, she was big enough thin, 
but she ’s a horse entirely now, wid the walk av a duck, an’ 
the cheeks av her shakin’ like a bowl av shtirabout whin she 
goes. Her poor Dinnis dar n’t say his sowl belonged to him, 



but was conthrolled be her, an’ they do say his last words 
were, ‘ I ’ll have pace,’ that was phat he niver had afther he 
married her, fur she was wan that ’ud be shmilin’ an’ shmilin’ 
an’ the tongue av her like a razer. She ’d a good bit o’ prop- 
erty in the inn, siven beds in the house fur thravellers, an’ six 
childher, the oldest nigh onto twelve, an’ from him on down 
in reg’lar steps like thim in front o’ the coort-house. 


THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


199 


u Now, a bit up the shtrate from the Shamrock there was a 
little shop kept be Missis O’Donnell, the widdy av Tim O’Don- 
nell, that died o’ bein’ mortified in his legs that broke be his 
failin’ aff his horse wan night whin he was cornin’ back from 



Athlone, where he ’d been to a fair. Missis O’Donnell was a 
wapin’ widdy, that ’s got eyes like a hydrant, where ye can 
turn on the wather whin ye plaze. Begorra, thim ’s the wid- 
dys that ’ull do fur anny man, fur no more can ye tell phat ’s 


200 


IRISH WONDERS. 


in their minds be lookin’ at their faces than phat kind av close 
they ’ve got on be lookin’ at their shadders, an’ whin they cor- 
ner a man that ’s tinder-hearted, an’ give a shy look at him 
up out o’ their eyes, an’ thin look down an’ sind two or three 
dhrops o’ wather from undher their eye-lashers, the only sal- 
vation fur him is to get up an’ run like it was a bag o’ gun- 
powdher she was. So Missis O’Donnell, whin she seen Mis- 
ther Dooley, tuk the same notion into her head that the Widdy 
Mulligan did, fur she ’d two childher, a boy an’ a gurrul, that 
were growin’ up, an’ the shop was n’t payin’ well. 

“ There was another widdy in it, the Widdy McMurthry, 
that aftherwards married a sargeant av the polis, an’ lives in 
Limerick. She was wan o’ thim frishky widdys that shtruts 
an’ wears fine close an’ puts on more airs than a paycock. 
She was a fine-lookin’ woman thim times, an’ had money in 
plinty that she got be marryin’ McMurthry, that was owld 
enough to be a father to her an’ died o’ dhrinkin’ too much 
whishkey at first, an’ thin too much sulphur- wather at Lisdoon 
Varna to set him right agin. She was always ready wid an 
answer to ye, fur it was quick witted she was, wid slathers o’ 
talk that did n’t mane annything, an’ a giggle that she did n’t 
nade to hunt fur whin she wanted it to make a show wid. 
An’ she ’d a dawther that was a fine child, about siventeen, a 
good dale like her mother. 

“ Now, Misther Dooley had a kind heart in his body fur 
wimmin in gineral, an’ as he liked a bit o’ chaff wid thim on 
all occashuns, he was n’t long in gettin’ acquainted wid all the 
wimmin 6’ the parish, an’ was well liked be thim, an’, be the 
same token, was n’t be the men, fur men, be nacher, does n’t 
like a woman’s man anny more than wimmin like a men’s 
woman. But, afther a bit, he begun to centher himself on 
the three widdys, an’ sorra the day’ ud go by whin he come to 


THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


201 


town but phat he ’d give wan or another o’ thim a pace av his 
comp’ny that was very plazin’ to thim. Bedad, he done that 
same very well, for he made a round av it for to kape thim in 
suspmce. He ’d set in the ale room o’ the Shamrock an hour 
in the afthernoon an’ chat wid the Widdy Mulligan as she was 
sarvin’ the dhrink, an’ shtop in the Widdy O’DonneH’s shop as 
he was goin’ by, to get a thrifle or a bit av shwates an’ give to 
her childher beways av a complimint, an’ thin go to Missis Mc- 
Murthry’s to tay, an’ so got on well wid thim all. An’ it ’s me 
belafe he ’d be doin’ that same to this blessed day only that 
the widdys begun to be pressin’ as not likin’ fur to wait anny 
longer. Fur, mind ye, a widdy ’s not like a young wan that ’ll 
wait fur ye to spake, an’ if ye don’t do it, ’ull go on foriver, 
or till she gets tired av waitin’ an’ takes some wan else that 
does spake, widout sayin’ a word to ye at all ; but the widdy 
’ull be hintin’ an’ hintin’, an’ her hints ’ull be as shtrong as a 
donkey’s kick, so that the head o’ ye has to be harder than a 
pavin’-shtone if ye don’t undhershtand, an’ ye ’ve got to have 
more impidince than a monkey if ye don’t spake up an’ say 
something about marry in’. 

“ W ell, as I was afther sayin’, the widdys begun to be 
pressin’ him dost : the Widdy Mulligan tellin’ him how good 
her business was an’ phat a savin’ there ’d be if a farm an’ a 
public were put together; the Widdy O’Donnell a-lookin’ at 
him out av her tears an’ sighin’ an’ tellin’ him how lonely he 
must be out on a farm an’ nobody but a man wid him in the 
house, fur she was lonesome in town, an’ it was n’t natheral 
at all, so it was n’t, fur aither man or woman to be alone ; an’ 
the Widdy McMurthry a palatherin’ to him that if he’d a fine, 
good-lookin’ woman that loved him, he ’d be a betther man an’ 
a changed man entirely. So they wint on, the widdys a-comin’ 
at him, an’ he thryin’ to kape wid thim all, as he might have 


202 


IRISH WONDERS. 


knewn he couldn’t do (barrin’ he married the three o’ thim 
like a Turk), until aitch wan got to undhershtand, be phat he 
said to her, that he was goin’ to marry her, an’ the minnit 
they got this in their heads, aitch begged him that he ’d shtay 
away from the other two, fur aitch knewn he wint to see thim 
all. By jayminy, it bothered him thin, fur he liked to talk to 
thim all aiquelly, an’ did n’t want to confine his agrayble 
comp’ny to anny wan o’ thim. So he got out av it thish-a-way. 
He promised the Widdy McMurthry that he ’d not go to the 
Shamrock more than wanst in the week, nor into the Widdy 
O’Donnell’s barrin’ he naded salt fur his cow ; an’ said to the 
Widdy Mulligan that he ’d not more than spake to Missis 
O’Donnell whin he wint in, an’ that he ’d go no more at all 
to Missis McMurthry’s ; an’ he towld Missis O’Donnell that 
whin he wint to the Shamrock he ’d get his sup an’ thin lave 
at wanst, an’ not go to the Widdy McMurthry’s axceptin’ 
whin his horse wanted to be shod, the blacksmith’s bein’ fer- 
ninst her dure that it ’ud be convaynient fur him to wait at. 
So he shmiled wid himself thinkin’ he ’d done thim com- 
plately, an’ made up his mind that whin his pitaties were dug 
he ’d give up the farm an’ get over into County Clare, away 
from the widdys. 

“ But thim that think widdys are fools are desaved entirely, 
an’ so was Misther Dooley, fur instead av his throubles bein’ 
inded, begob, they were just begun. Ivery time he wint into 
the Shamrock Missis O’Donnell heard av it an’ raymonshtrated 
wid him, an’ ’ud cry at him beways it was dhrinkin’ himself to 
death he was ; afther lavin’ the Shamrock, the Widdy Mulli- 
gan ’ud set wan av her boys to watch him up the strate an’ 
see if he shtopped in the shop. Av coorse he cud n’t go by, 
an’ whin he come agin, the Widdy Mulligan ’ud gosther him 
about it, an’ thin he ’d promise not to do it agin. No more 


THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


203 


cud he go in the Widdy O’DonnelPs shop widout meetin’ 
Missis McMurthry’s dawther that was always shtreelin’ on the 
strate, an’ thin her mother ’ud say to him it was a power o’ 
salt his cow was atin’, an’ the Widdy O’Donnell towld him his 
horse must be an axpensive baste fur to nade so much shooin’. 

“ Thin he ’d tell thim a lot o’ lies that they purtinded to 
belave an’ did n’t, bekase they ’re such desavers thimselves 
that it is n’t aisey fur to do thim, but Dooley begun to think 
if it got anny hotter fur him he ’d lave the pitaties to the 
widdy s to divide bechune thim as a raytribution fur the loss 
av himself, an’ go to Clare widout delay. 

“ While he ’d this bother on him he got to know owld Miss 
Rooney, that lived wid her mother an’ father on the farm 
next but wan to his own, but on the other side o’ the way, an’ 
the manes be which he got to know her was this. Wan 
mornin’, whin Dooley’s man, Paddy, wint to milk the cow, 
bad scran to the dhrop she ’d to shpare, an’ he pullin’ an’ 
pullin’, like it was ringin’ the chapel bell he was, an’ she 
kickin’, an’ no milk cornin’, faix not as much as ’ud blind the 
eye av a midge. So he wint an’ towld Misther Dooley. 

“ 6 1 can get no milk,’ says he. ‘ Begorra the cow ’s as 
dhry as a fiddler’s troat,’ says he. 

“ ‘ Musha, thin,’ says Misther Dooley, ‘ it ’s the lazy oma- 
dhawn ye are. I don’t belave it. Can ye milk at all ? ’ says 
he. 

“ ‘ I can,’ says Paddy, ‘ as well as a calf,’ says he. ‘ But 
phat ’s the use ov pullin’ ? Ye ’d get the same quantity from 
a rope,’ says he. 

“ So Dooley wint out an’ thried himself an’ did n’t get as 
much as a shmell of milk. 

“ ‘ Phat ’s the matther wid the baste ? ’ says he, ‘ an’ her on 
the grass from sun to sun.’ 


204 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ c Be jakers,’ says Paddy, ‘ it ’s my consate that she ’s be- 
witched.’ 

u i It ’s thrue fur ye,’ says Dooley, as the like was aften 
knewn. c Go you to Misther Rooney’s wid the pail an’ get 
milk fur the calf, an’ ax if there ’s a Pishogue hereabouts.’ 

“ So Paddy wint an’ come back sayin’ that the young lady 
towld him there was. 

u c So there ’s a young lady in it,’ thinks Dooley. Faix, the 
love av coortin’ was shtrong on him. c Did ye ax her how to 
raich the woman ? ’ 

“ ‘ Bedad, I did n’t. I forgot,’ says Paddy. 

“ * That ’s yerself entirely,’ says Dooley to him agin. ‘ I ’d 
betther thrust me arriants to a four-legged jackass as to wan 
wid two. He ’d go twict as fast an’ remimber as much. I ’ll 
go meself,’ says he, only wantin’ an axcuse, an’ so he did. 
He found Miss Rooney thried to be plazin’, an’ it bein’ convain- 
ient, he wint agin, an’ so it was ivery day whin he ’d go fur 
the calf’s milk he ’d have a chat wid her, an’ sometimes come 
over in the avenin’, bekase it was n’t healthy fur him in town 
just thin. 

“ But he wint to Owld Moll about the cow, an’ the charm 
she gev him soon made the baste all right agin, but, be that 
time, he ’d got used to goin’ to Rooney’s an’ liked it betther 
than the town, bekase whinever he wint to town he had to 
make so many axcuses he was afeared the widdys ’ud ketch 
him in a lie. 

“ So he shtayed at home most times and wint over to Roo- 
ney’s the rest, fur it was n’t a bad job at all, though she was 
about one an’ forty, an’ had give up the fight fur a husband 
an’ so saiced strugglin’. As long as they’ve annyhope, owld 
maids are the most praypostherous craythers alive, fur they ’ll 
fit thimselves wid the thrappin’s av a young gurrul an’ look 


THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


205 


as onaisey in thim as a boy wid his father’s britches on. But 
whin they ’ve consinted to the sitiwation an’ saiced to struggle, 
thin they begin to be happy an’ enjoy life a bit, but there ’s 
no aise in the worruld fur thim till thin. Now Miss Rooney 
had gev up the contist an’ plasthered her hair down on aitch 
side av her face so smooth ye ’d shwear it was ironed it was, 
an’ begun to take the worruld aisey. 

“ But there ’s thim that says an owld maid niver does give 
up her hope, only lets on to be continted so as to lay in am- 
boosh fur anny onsuspishus man that happens to shtray along, 
an’ faix, it looks that-a-way from phat I ’m goin’ to tell ye, 
bekase as soon as Misther Dooley begun to come over an’ pa- 
lather his fine talk to her an’ say shwate things, thin she up 
an’ begins shtrugglin’ harder nor iver, bekase it was afther 
she ’d let go, an’ cornin’ onexpected-like she thought it was a 
dispinsation av Providence, whin rayly it was only an acci- 
dent it was, beways av Dooley’s cow goin’ dliry an’ the calf 
too young to lave suckin’ an’ ate grass. 

u Anny how, wan day, afther Misther Dooley had talked 
purty nice the avenin’ afore, she put an her cloak, an’ wint to 
Owld Moll an’ in an’ shut the dure. 

“ ‘ Now, Moll,’ she says to the owld cuillean, ‘ it ’s a long 
time since I ’ve been to ye, barrin’ the time the goat was lost, 
fur, sure, I lost me confidince in ye. Ye failed me twict, 
wanst whin John McCune forgot me whin he wint to Derry 
an’ thin come back an’ married that Mary O’Niel, the impi- 
dint young shtrap, wid the hair av her as red as a glowin 
coal ; an’ wanst whin Misther McFinnigan walked aff from 
me an’ married the Widdy Bryan. Now ye must do yer 
besht, fur I ’m thinkin’ that, wid a little industhry, I cud get 
Misther Dooley, the same that the town widdys is so flus- 
thrated wid.’ 


206 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ ‘ An does lie come to see ye, at all ? ’ says Moll. 

“ 1 Faith he does, an’ oiiless I ’m mishtaken is mightily 
plazed wid his comp’ny whin it ’s me that ’s in it/ says Miss 
Rooney. 

“ 6 An phat widdys is in it/ says Moll, as she did n’t know, 
bekase sorra a step did the widdys go to her wid their love 
doin’s, as they naded no help, an’ cud thransact thim affairs 
thimselves as long as their tongues held out. 

“ So Miss Rooney towld her, an’ Moll shuk her head. c J a- 
gers/ says she, ‘ I ’m af eared yer goose is cooked if all thim 
widdys is afther him. I won’t thry/ says she. 

“ But Miss Rooney was as much in airnest as the widdys, 
troth, I ’in thinkin’, more, bekase she was fairly aitchin’ fur a 
husband now she ’d got her mind on it. 

“ ‘ Sure, Moll/ says she, ‘ ye would n’t desart me now an’ it 
me last show. Thim widdys can marry who they plaze, bad 
scran to ’em, but if Misther Dooley gets from me, divil fly wid 
the husband I ’ll get at all, at all/ beginnin’ to cry. 

“ So, afther a dale av palatherin’, Moll consinted to thry, 
bein’ it was the third time Miss Rooney had been to her, be- 
sides, she wanted to save her charackther for a knowledgeable 
woman. So she aggrade to do her best, an’ gev her a little 
bag to carry wid ’erbs in it, an’ writ some words on two bits 
av paper an’ the same in Latin. It was an awful charm, no 
more do I remimber it, fur it was niver towld me, nor to anny 
wan else, fur it was too dreadful to say axceptin’ in Latin an’ 
in a whisper fur fear the avil sper’ts ’ud hear it, that don’t un- 
dhershtand thim dape langwidges. 

“ 6 Now, darlint/ says owld Moll, a-givin’ her wan , 6 take you 
this charm an’ kape it on you an’ the bag besides, an’ ye must 
manage so as this other paper ’ull be* on Misther Dooley, an’ 
if it fails an’ he don’t marry ye I ’ll give ye back yer money 
an’ charge ye nothing at all,’ says she. 


THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


207 


“ So Miss Rooney tuk the charms an’ paid Owld Moll one 
pound five, an’ was to give her fifteen shillins more afther she 
was married to Dooley. 

“ She wint home, bothered entirely how she ’ d get the charm 
on Dooley, an’ the avenin’ come, an’ he wid it, an’ shtill she 
did n’t know. So he set an’ talked an’ talked, an’ by an’ by 
he dhrunk up the rest av the whiskey an’ wather in his glass 
an’ got up to go. 

“ 6 Why, Misther Dooley,’ says she, bein’ all at wanst shtruck 
he an idee. ‘ Was iver the like seen av yer coat? ’ says she. 
6 Sure it ’s tore in the back. Sit you down agin wan min- 
nit an’ I ’ll mend it afore ye can light yer pipe. Take it 
aff,’ says she. 

“ ‘ Axqueeze me,’ says Dooley. ‘ I may be a bigger fool 
than I look, or I may look a bigger fool than I am, but I 
know enough to kape the coat on me back whin I ’m wid a 
lady,’ says he. 

“ 6 Then take a sate an’ I ’ll sow it on ye,’ says she to 
him agin, so he- set down afore the fire, an’ she, wid a pair 
av shizzors an’ a nadle, wint behind him an’ at the coat. 
’T was a sharp thrick av her, bekase she took the shizzors, 
an’ whin she was lettin’ on to cut aff the t’reads that she said 
were hangin’, she ripped the collar, an’ shlipped in the bit 
o’ paper, an’ sowed it up as nate as a samesthress in less than 
no time. 

66 ‘ It ’s much beholden to ye I am,’ says Dooley, risin’ wid 
his pipe lit. c An’ it ’s a happy man I ’d be if I’d a young 
woman av yer size to do the like to me ivery day.’ 

u 6 Glory be to God,’ says Miss Rooney to herself, fur she 
thought the charm was begirinin’ to work. But she says to 
him, ‘ Oh, it ’s talkin’ ye are. A fine man like you can marry 
who he plazes.’ 


208 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ So Dooley wint home, an’ she, thinkin’ the business as 
good as done, towld her mother that night she was to marry 
Misther Dooley. The owld lady cud n’t contain herself or 
the saycret aither, so the next mornin’ towld it to her sister, 
an’ she to her dawther that wint to school wid Missis Mc- 
Murthry’s gurrul. Ay coorse the young wan cud n’t howld her 
jaw anny more than the owld wans, an’ up an’ towld the wid- 
dy’s dawther an’ she her mother an’ the rest o’ the town, so be 
the next day ivery wan knew that Dooley was goin’ to marry 
Miss Rooney : that shows, if ye want to shpread a bit o’ news 
wid a quickness aiquel to the telly graph, ye ’ve only to tell it 
to wan woman as a saycret. 

“ W ell, me dear, the noise the widdys made ’ud shtun a 
dhrummer. Dooley had n’t been in town fur a week, an’ 
widdys bein’ nacherly suspishus, they misthrusted that some- 
thin’ was wrong, but divil a wan o’ thim thought he ’d do 
such an onmannerly thrick as that. But they all belayed it, 
bekase widdys judge iverybody be themselves, so they were 
mighty mad. 

“ The Widdy McMurthry was first to hear the news, as 
her dawther towld her, an’ she riz in a fury. ‘ Oh the ow- 
dashus villin,’ says she ; ‘ to think av him cornin’ here an’ me 
listenin’ at him that was lyin’ fasther than a horse ’ud throt. 
But I ’ll have justice, so I will, an’ see if there ’s law for a 
lone widdy. I ’ll go to the judge,’ fur, I forgot to tell ye, 
it was jail delivery an’ the coort was settin’ an’ the judge 
down from Dublin wid a wig on him the size av a bar’l. 

“ Whin they towld Missis O’Donnell, she bust out cryin’ an’ 
says, ‘ Sure it can’t he thrue. It is n’t in him to desave a poor 
widdy wid only two childher, an’ me thrustin’ on him,’ so 
she wint into the back room an’ laid on the bed. 

66 But whin the Widdy Mulligan learned it, they thought 


THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


209 


she d take a fit, the face av her got so red an’ she chokin’ 
wid rage. ‘ Tatther an’ agers/ says she. ‘ If I only had that 
vagabone here five minnits, it ’s a long day it ’ud be afore 
he ’d desave another tinder-hearted faymale.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, be aisey,’ says wan to her, ‘ faix, you ’re not the 
onhest wan that ’s in it. Sure there ’s the Widdy O’Don- 
nell an’ Missis McMurthry that he ’s desaved aiquelly wid 
yerself .’ 

“ ‘ Is that thrue ? ’ says she ; ‘ by this an’ by that I ’ll see 
thim an’ we ’ll go to the judge an’ have him in the prision. 
Sure the Quane ’s a widdy herself an’ knows how it feels, an’ 
her judge ’ull take the part av widdys that ’s misconshtrewed 
be a nagurly blaggard like owld Dooley. Bad luck to the 
seed, breed, an’ generation av him. I cud mop up the flure 
wid him, the divil roast him, an’ if I lay me hands on him, I ’ll 
do it,’ says she, an’ so she would ; an’ a blessing it was to Mis- 
ther Dooley he was not in town just thin, but at home, diggin’ 
pitaties as fast as he cud, an’ chucklin’ to himself how he ’d 
send the pitaties to town be Paddy, an’ himself go to Clare 
an’ get away from the whole tribe av widdys an’ owld 
maids. 

“ So the Widdy Mulligan wint afther the Widdy O’Donnell 
an’ tuk her along, an’ they towld thim av the Widdy McMur- 
thry an’ how she was done be him, an’ they got her too, fur 
they all said, ‘ Sure we would n’t marry him fur him, but only 
want to see him punished fur misconshtructing phat we 
said to him an’ lying to us.’ Be this time half the town was 
ready an’ aiger to go wid thim to the coort, an’ so they did, 
an’ in, wid the offishers thryin’ to kape thim out, an’ the wim- 
min shovin’ in, an’ all their frinds wid ’em, an’ the shur’f 
callin’ out 6 Ordher in the coort,’ an’ the judge lookin’ over 
his shpectacles at thim. 


210 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ ‘ Phat 9 s this at all ? 9 says the judge, wid a solemnious 
voice. 4 Is it a riat it is, or a faymale convulsion ? ’ — whin 
he seen all the wimmin. 4 Phat ’s the matther ? ’ says he, an’ 
wid that all the wimmin begun at wanst, so as the noise av 
thim was aiquel to a ’vie t ion. 

44 4 Marcy o’ God,’ says the judge, 4 phat ’s in the faymales 
at all ? Are they dishtracted entirely, or bewitched, or only 
dhrunk ? ’ says he. 

44 4 We ’re crazy wid graif, yer Lordshap,’ they schraimed 
at him at wanst. 4 It ’s justice we want agin the uppresser.’ 

44 4 Phat ’s the uppresser been a-doin’ ? ’ axed the judge. 

44 4 Disthroyin’ our pace, an’ that av our families,’ they said 
to him. 

44 4 Who is the uppresser ? ’ he axed. 

44 4 Owld Dooley,’ they all shouted at him at the wan time, 
like it was biddin’ at an auction they were. 

44 So at first the judge cud n’t undhershtand at all, till some 
wan whishpered the truth to him an’ thin he scrotched his 
chin wid a pen. 

44 4 Is it a man fur to marry all thim widdys ? By me wig, 
he ’s a bowld wan. Go an’ fetch him,’ he says to a constha- 
ble. 4 Be sated, ladies, an’ ye ’ll have justice,’ he says to the 
widdys, very p’lite. 4 Turn out thim other blaggards,’ he 
says to the shur’f, an’ aw T ay wint the polisman afther Dooley. 

44 He found him at home, wid his coat aff, an’ him an’ 
Paddy diggin’ away at the pitaties for dear life, bekase he 
wanted to get thim done. 

44 4 Misther Dooley,’ says the consthable to him, 4 ye ’re me 
prish’ner. Come along, ye must go wid me at wanst.’ 

44 At first, Dooley was surprised in that degray he thought 
the life ’ud lave him, as the consthable come up behind him 
on the quiet, so as to give him no show to run away. 


THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


211 


u 6 Phat for ? ’ says Dooley to him, whin he ’d got his wind 
agin. 

u 6 Faix, I ’m not sartain,’ says the polisman, that was n’t 
a bad felly ; ‘ but I belave it ’s along o’ thim widdys that are 
so fond o’ ye. The three o’ thim ’s in the coort an’ all the 
faymales in town, an’ the judge sint me afther ye, an’ ye 
must come at wanst, so make ready to go immejitly.’ 

“ 6 Don’t go wid him,’ says Paddy, wid his sleeves rowled 
up an’ spitting in his hands. ‘ Lave me at him,’ says he, but 
Dooley wouldn’t, bekase he was a paceable man. But he 
was n’t anxshus to go to the coort at all ; begob, he ’d all the 
coortin’ he naded, but bein’ there was no help fur it, he got 
his coat, the same that Miss Rooney sowed the charm in, an’ 
shtarted wid the consthable. 

“ Now, it was that mornin’ that owld Rooney was in town, 
thryin’ to sell a goat he had, that gev him no end o’ throuble 
be losin’ itself part of the time an’ the rest be jumpin’ on the 
thatch an’ stickin’ its feet through. But he cud n’t sell it, as 
ivery wan knew the baste as well as himself, an’ so he was so- 
ber, that was n’t common wid him. Whin he seen the widdys 
an’ the other wimmin wid thim shtravigerin’ through the 
strate on the way to the coort an’ heard the phillaloo they 
were afther makin’, he axed phat the matther was. So they 
towld him, an’ says he, ‘ Be the powers, if it ’s a question av 
makin’ him marry some wan, me dawther has an inthrust in 
the matther,’ so he dhropped the goat’s shtring an’ shtarted 
home in a lamplighter’s throt to fetch her, an’ got there about 
the time the polisman nabbed Dooley. 

u 6 There, they ’re afther goin’ now,’ says he to her. ‘ Make 
haste, or we ’ll lose thim,’ an’ aff they run, she wid her charm 
an’ he widout his coat, grippin’ a shillalee in his fisht, an’ 
caught up wid Paddy that was follerin’ the polisman an’ 
Dooley. 


212 


IRISH WONDERS. 


“ So they jogged along, comfortable enough, the polisman 
an’ Dooley in the lade, afther thim owld Rooney an’ Paddy, 
blaggardin’ the consthable ivery fut o’ the way, an’ offerin’ 
fur to bate him so as he would n’t know himself be lookin’ in 
the glass, an’ Miss Rooney in the rare, wondherin’ if the 
charm ’ud work right. But Dooley did n’t let a word out av 
his jaw, as knowin’ he ’d nade all his breath afther gettin’ into 
the coort. 

“ At the rise o’ the hill the pursesshun was met be about a 
hunderd o’ the town boys that come out fur to view thim, an’ 
that yelled at Dooley how the widdys were waitin’ to tare him 
in paces, an’ that he was as good as a dead man a’ready, so 
he was ; an’ whin they got into town, all the men jined the 
show, roarin’ wid laughter an’ shoutin’ at Dooley that the 
judge cud n’t do anny more than hang him at wanst, an’ to 
shtand it like a hayro, bekase they ’d all be at the hangin’ 
an’ come to the wake besides an’ have a tundherin’ big time. 
But he answered thim niver a word, so they all wint on to 
the coort, an’ in, bringin’ the other half o’ the town wid ’em, 
the faymale half bein’ there kapin’ comp’ny wid the widdys. 

“ The minnit they come nie the dure, all the wdddys an’ 
wimmin begun in wan breath to make raimarks on thim. 

“ ‘ A-a-a-ah, the hang-dog face he has,’ says Missis McMur- 
thry. ‘ Sure has n’t he the look av a shape-thief on the road 
to the gallus ? ’ 

“ 6 See the hay then vagabone,’ says the Widdy Mulligan. 
‘ If I had me tin fingers on him for five minnits, it ’s all the 
satiswhackshun I ’d ax. Bad cess to the hair I ’d lave on the 
head av him or in his whushkers aither.’ 

“But the Widdy O’Donnell only cried, an’ all the wimmin 
turned their noses up whin they seen Miss Rooney cornin’ in. 

“ ‘ Look at that owld thing,’ says they. ‘ Phat a power av 




























































THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


215 


impidince ! Mind the consate av her to be cornin’ here wid 
him. Sure she has n’t the shame av a shtone monkey,’ says 
they av her. 

“ 6 Silence in the coort,’ says the shur’f . ‘ Stop that, 

laughin’ be the dure. Git along down out o’ thim windys/ 
says he to the mob that Dooley an’ the consthable brought 
wid thim. 

66 ‘ Misther Dooley/ says the judge, ( I ’m axed to b’lave 
ye ’re thryin’ to marry four wimmin at wanst, three av the 
same aforeshed bein’ widdys an’ the other wan not. Is it 
thrue, or do ye plade not guilty ? ’ says he. 

“ ‘ It ’s not thrue, yer Lordshap,’ says Dooley, shpakin’ up, 
bekase he seen he was in for it an’ put on a bowld face. 
( Thim widdys is crazy to get a husband, an’ misconsay ved the 
manin’ o’ me words,’ says he, an’ that minnit you’d think a 
faymale lunattic ashylum broke loose in the coort. 

“ They all gabbled at wanst like a field av crows. They 
said he was a haythen, a Toork, a vulgar shpalpeen, a lyin’ 
blaggard, a uppresser av the widdy, a robber av the orphin, 
he was worse than a nagur, he was, so he was, an’ they niver 
thought av belavin’ him, nor av marryin’ him aither till he 
axed thim, an’ so on. 

“ The judge was a married man himself an’ knewn it was 
no use thryin’ to shtop the gostherin,’ for it was a joke av him 
to say that the differ bechuxt a woman an’ a book was you 
cud shut up a book, so he let thim go on till they were spint 
an’ out o’ breath an’ shtopped o’ thimselves like an owld 
clock that ’s run down. 

66 ‘ The sintince av this coort, Misther Dooley, is, that ye 
marry wan av ’em an’ make compinsation to the other wans 
in a paycoonyary way be payin’ thim siven poun’ aitch.’ 

“ ‘ Have marcy, yer Lordshap,’ says Dooley, bekase he seen 


216 


IRISH WONDERS. 


himself shtripped av all he had. ‘ Make it five poun’, an’ 
that ’s more than I ’ve got in money/ 

u 6 Siven pounds not a haporth less/ says the judge. 6 If 
ye have n’t the money ye can pay it in projuice. An’ make 
yer chice bechune the wimmin who ye ’ll marry, as it ’s mar- 
ried ye ’ll be this blessed day, bekase ye ’ve gone too long 
a’ready,’ says the judge, very starn, an’ thin the widdys all got 
quite, an’ begun to be sorry they gev him so many hard 
names. 

“ ‘ Is it wan o’ the widdys must I marry ? ’ says Dooley, 
axin’ the judge, an’ the charm in his coller beginnin’ to work 
hard an’ remind him av Miss Rooney, that was settin’ on wan 
side, trimblin’. 

“ 6 Tare an’ ’ouns,’ says the judge. ‘ Bad luck to ye, ye 
onmannerly idjit,’ as he was gettin’ vexed wid Dooley, that 
was shtandin’, scrotchin’ the head av him like he was thryin’ 
to encourage his brains. ‘ Wasn’t it wan o’ the wimmin that 
I tould ye to take ? ’ says he. 

“ ‘ If that ’s phat yer Lordshap says, axin’ yer par din an’ 
not misdoubtin’ ye, if it ’s plazin’ to ye, bedad, I ’ll take the 
owld maid, bekase thim widdys have got a sight av young 
wans, an’ childher are like toothpicks, ivery man wants his 
own an’ not another felly’s.’ But he had another razon that 
he towld to me afther ; says he, 6 If I ’ve got to have a famly, 
be jakers, I want to have the raisin’ av it meself,’ an’ my 
blessin’ on him for that same. 

“ But whin he was spakin’ an’ said he ’d take Miss Rooney, 
wid that word she fainted away fur dead, an’ was carried out 
o’ the coort be her father an’ Paddy. 

u So it was settled, an’ as Dooley did n’t have the money, 
the widdys aggrade to take their pay some other way. The 
Widdy Mulligan tuk the pitaties he was diggin’ whin the 


THE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS. 


217 


polisman gripped him, as she said they’d kape the inn all 
winter. The Widdy McMurthry got his hay, which come 
convaynient, bekase her brother kep post horses an’ tuk the 
hay av her at two shillins undher the market. Missis O’Don- 
nell got the cow that made all the throuble be goin’ dhry at 
the wrong time, an’ bein’ it was a good cow was vally’d at 
tin poun’ ; so she gev him three poun’, an’ was to sind him the 
calf whin it was weaned. So the widdys were all paid for 
bein’ wounded in their hearts be Misther Dooley, an’ a good 
bargain they made av it, bekase a widdy’s affections are like 
garden weeds, the more ye thrample thim the fasther they 
grow. 

“ Misther Dooley got Miss Rooney, an’ she a husband, fur 
they pulled her out av her faint wid a bucket o’ wather, an’ 
the last gossoon in town wint from the coort to the chapel wid 
Miss Rooney an’ Misther Dooley, the latther crassin’ himself 
ivery minnit an’ blessin’ God ivery step he tuk that it was n’t 
the jail he was goin’ to, an’ they were married there wid a 
roarin’ crowd waitin’ in the strate fur to show thim home. But 
they sarcumvinted thim, bekase they wint out the back way 
an’ through Father O’Donohue’s garden, an’ so home, lavin’ 
the mob howlin’ before the chapel dure like wild Ingines. 

“ An’ that ’s the way the owld maid defated three widdys, 
that is n’t often done, no more would she have done it but for 
owld Moll an’ the charm in Dooley’s coat. But he ’s very well 
plazed, an’ that I know, for afther me first wife died, her I 
was tellin’ ye av, I got the roomy tics in me back like tin t’ou- 
sand divils clawin’ at me backbone, an’ I made me mind up 
that I ’d get another wife, bekase I wanted me back rubbed, 
sence it ’ull be chaper, says I, to marry some wan to rub it than 
to pay a boy to do that same. So I was lookin’ roun’ an’ met 
Misther Dooley an’ spake av it to him, an’ good luck it ’ud 


218 


IRISH WONDERS. 


have been if I ’d tuk his advice, but I did n’t, bein’ surrounded 
be a widdy afther, that’s rubbed me back well fur me only 
wid a shtick. But says he to me, ‘ Take you my advice Mis- 
ther Magwire, an’ whin ye marry, get you an owld maid, if 
there ’s wan to be had in the counthry. Gurruls is flighty an’ 
axpectin’ too much av ye, an’ widdys is greedy buzzards as 
ye ’ve seen be my axpayrience, but owld maids is humble, an’ 
thankful for gettin’ a husband at all, God bless ’em, so they 
shtrive to plaze an’ do as ye bid thim widout grumblin’ or 
axin’ throublesome questions.’ ” 




















































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